


portions for foxes

by ohcinnamon



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Anal Sex, Black Cards & Soul Punk AU — FOB never happened, Blow Jobs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-15 19:10:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 50,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13619850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohcinnamon/pseuds/ohcinnamon
Summary: It’s the summer of 2011, and Pete Wentz is living his dreams. Black Cards, his band, is finally headlining a tour, he’s got a guaranteed record deal on the way, and girls and guys are falling all over themselves to get to him. Everything is perfect — that is, until his record label decides to shatter his dream by adding a new act to the tour lineup last minute, stealing a good portion of his stage time and everything he’s worked on for so long.The new guy’s name is Patrick Stump, and Pete hates him already.





	portions for foxes

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been a labor of love for me for a long time, and i can't believe it's finally finished. days and months and 50k words later, we made it. sometimes it felt like i'd never finish it, but now that we're here, i'm so glad i didn't give up on it. thank you to everyone who encouraged me and kept me going while writing it — i am so lucky to have all of you in my life.
> 
> you can find the official soundtrack to go along with this fic **[right here](https://open.spotify.com/user/xjustcallmemadi/playlist/3lMYDXhjUYkhYLjq5T7Cmq?si=F9a72sRWT0GtsvifJpYN0Q)**. just throw it on shuffle and give it a listen; it might enhance the mood of your reading.
> 
> a million thanks to **[futuristicallyoriginalmerman](http://www.futuristicallyoriginalmerman.tumblr.com)** on tumblr for the amazing fanart!
> 
> inspired by the song "portions for foxes" by rilo kiley.

—

Pete Wentz kind of has everything he’s ever wanted in life right now.

He’s going on tour with one of his best friends and their music project, a few of his other best friends are opening for them, and, best of all, he’s got a guaranteed future with their current record label. He feels somewhat lucky that Black Cards is suddenly the subject of all this media attention, but another part of him glows with pride. This project has been his and Bebe’s baby for years, now — they deserve the fame.

The constant partying is something he’s still adjusting to, but something tells him he’ll fit in well. He remembers what it was like back in the hardcore scene, when he was a teenager; this is something like that, except much less violent and much more about schmoozing to important execs (which, by the way, he can totally do, even if he is three beers in, _thank you very much, Andy_ ). He’s been preparing for this moment his entire life — well, once he accepted that he wasn’t going to be a professional soccer player or a lawyer, anyway — and he’s got this shit on lock.

_Touring._ He still kind of can’t believe it. The _Hot Mess Tour_ kicks off in about a month, and Pete could not be more excited. He’s definitely happy about doing all these promo events (like, who the fuck would turn down free booze?) but actually being on tour, _headlining a tour_ , will be different. They’ve waited for their big break for so long, and now that they’ve got it, Pete’s holding onto it with all he has. He really can’t take this one for granted — the label had even gotten him and Bebe _touring musicians_ to support them on stage, something they’ve never had before.

One thing that makes it even more dreamlike is that their opening act practically consists of Pete’s very best friends in the Chicago music scene. Sure, he’s always heard that you get close to the other acts when you’re on tour, but it’s even better that he’s already super close with The Damned Things.

He loves all of the guys in the band, but he has a special soft spot for Joe Trohman and Andy Hurley, who are pretty much his two best friends besides Bebe. He’d practically grown up with them — well, with Andy, anyways. Joe had been a huge fan of some of Pete’s past bands, namely Racetraitor and Arma Angelus, and he’d taken the kid under his wing; lo and behold, he was meant to be a star. Despite being in a different band, he’s worked with the two of them on a lot of projects, and had even been the one to recommend them to his record label. To sum it up, the three of them are close, and Pete couldn’t be happier that he gets to tour with them, too.

A loud crash interrupts his thoughts, and he flinches at the sudden sound. There are shards from what was once a glass table all over the floor, and a collective gasp goes up from the center of the room. Then, as soon as it had happened, everyone seems to shrug it off and go back to partying; after all, this isn’t _their_ apartment, and even if it was, they’d be rich enough to pay for it, anyway. Pete’s can’t really remember whose penthouse they’re in, but even if he knew, he suspects he wouldn’t care too much, anyway. The only people he really cares about here are his friends, and the rest just come with the fame.

Almost as if on cue, Joe stumbles out of the crowd with his t-shirt rumpled and dark, curly hair sticking out in every direction, looking like a trainwreck — but a _fun_ trainwreck, at that. “Sorry!” he calls over the loud roar of laughter, pale blue eyes bloodshot and hazy. “I tripped. Think ’m a little bit fuzzy right now, maybe.”

Pete laughs, louder and more high-pitched than he’d expected it to come out, and sways just a bit as he gets to his feet. “You wanna let me in on that, babe?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” Joe yells back, laughing just as loud. “You want weed? I left some in my car. I could go for a smoke.”

Luckily for them, Andy swoops in just then, gloriously straightedge and sober. He grabs onto Joe’s arm with one hand, Pete’s with the other, and steadies them both. “Oh, no, you thought _wrong,_ fucker. There is no way I am letting either of you get any more fucked up than you already are.”

Joe and Pete both groan in sync, but it’s probably for the best. Andy’s saved their asses more times than Pete can count. He supposes he’s grateful — or, at least, he will be when he's sober.

Joe, on the other hand, decides that he’s not done complaining. “ _Andyyy_ ,” he whines, tugging at the older man's sleeve. “Am I not allowed to have fun for _one night_?”

“You are,” Andy says, a hesitant smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “But I am personally responsible for the both of you, and I’d like to keep my best friends in one piece if at all possible.”

Joe _tsks_ at him, but drops the subject and wanders back into the crowd alone, letting it go. Andy shakes his head, smiling, and turns to Pete. “So how does it feel to be famous, rockstar?”

Pete shugs, grinning. “Right now? It feels pretty damn good, if I’m being honest. Do I get this kind of treatment all the time?”

Andy snorts. “Please, you wish. In a few weeks, you’ll be on a cramped bus or sweating your ass off on stage, and you’ll remember what tour life is actually like.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Pete laughs. “All of us crammed into the back of a van and playing shows in crappy college towns for Arma doesn’t count as touring, and you know it. This is gonna be for _real_ , Andy. Real buses, real venues, real fans.”

Andy shrugs him off, but the excitement still lingers in the pit of his stomach. This is it, for him. This is the moment his life changes forever. A few weeks from now, he’ll be having the time of his life, with his best friends at his side and adoring fans all over him, and...and...

— and is that _Ashlee Simpson_ doing a line of cocaine off of Joe’s back across the room? Judging by the loud groan Andy lets out beside him and the way he buries his face in his hands, the answer is yes.

Oh, yeah. His life’s about to get real fucking awesome.

 

—

 

Pete feels beyond lucky to be a part of the label he’s signed to, he really does. Cobra is one of the best things that’s ever happened to him, if he’s being honest, and not just for the music he gets to make — it’s because of the people he knows through the label. They’re some of the most dynamic, _awesome_ humans on the planet, and he's able to call them his friends.

Cobra Class Entertainment was the brainchild of one Gabe Saporta and one Travie McCoy, and it all began _way_ back in the early 2000s. Legend has it that the label started when Gabe once stumbled into the desert, tripping on so many drugs that he swears he saw into the future — a future that included starting a record label with Travie, who could match Gabe’s charisma with his intelligence. Together, they became unstoppable in the music industry. It was hard to even get a meeting with them at this point.

Luckily, Pete had signed onto the label early, when he was still in Arma. When that eventually dissolved, he was already close to both Gabe and Travie when he came to them with his next project, Black Cards. Sometimes — scratch that, _all_ the time — having connections in the music industry really paid off.

So that’s why Pete has to hang up the phone, even though he’s setting up a date with _Ashlee motherfucking Simpson_ , of all people, when Gabe calls him. Girls are great. Gabe is better.

“Gabey baby!” Pete hollers into the phone, eyes lighting up with happiness. Andy raises an eyebrow at him from the barstool next to his, because Andy is always sober, and Pete is even louder than usual when he gets drunk. Not that he’s _totally_ out of it — okay, so he’s maybe a little drunk, but oh well. It’s not like Gabe’s never seen him plastered before. He might work for Pete’s label, but he’s also one of Pete’s most frequent partners in crime. “What brings you to call me on this fine Friday night?”

“Hey, Pete!” Gabe yells right back, as loud and excitable as ever. “Just wanna talk about some tour stuff. You mind finding somewhere quieter so I can actually hear you?”

“Yeah, sure! Just give me a minute to get outside.” Pete gets up, gesturing vageuly  to Andy so that he knows where he’ll be going, before pushing his way through the crowd. There's a small balcony near the back of the club that should be quiet enough for a phone call — especially since a Beyoncé song just came on, and everyone's rushing onto the dance floor.

“All right, just hurry up, man! Time is —”

“—precious, I know, Gabe. You only tell me that every time you call me,” Pete mocks, grinning. “So what’s the news? I feel honored to receive a call from the Head Cobra himself.”

“Don’t flatter me,” Gabe says, but Pete can hear the teasing note in his voice. “Anyway, Travie and the rest of the label — including me — have decided to send another act on tour with you. We just signed him, but we think he’ll go pretty far.”

“Awesome, we could use another opening act.” Pete grins, bumping into some girl and nearly spilling his beer all over her on his way out the door. He mouths an apology and steps onto the dimly-lit balcony, closing his eyes as the lake breeze washes over him. “I mean, I love Damned Things. They're one of my favorites. But more openers are always fun.”

“Actually, he’s not an opener. He’ll be sharing the headlining spot with you.”

Pete's excitement comes to a dead halt, turns to a cold, churning sense of jealousy and anger in the pit of his stomach, because _what_?

“Are you...are you fucking kidding me?” He and Bebe had worked so hard to promote their band, to impress the label enough to secure them their own headlining tour. He’d put in too many long hours and sleepless nights in the studio for some _beginner_ act to steal half of his well-earned stage time. “Gabe, this is our big break. This is everything Bebe and I have worked toward for the past few years. Are you seriously telling me that just because the label has a new act, we have to give up the stage time we’ve earned?”

Gabe draws in a sharp breath on the other end of the line, and Pete knows he’s being a bit ridiculous, but at this point he doesn’t care. He feels _hurt_ , betrayed — he thought he could trust Gabe.“Pete, I know this isn’t the ideal situation for you, but we need to help him promote his upcoming album, and you’ll still be one of the main headliners, and —”

“You know what, Gabe? I thought we were friends. This was supposed to be _it_ for me and Bebe, and you knew that. I trusted you.” He chuckles bitterly, hot tears stinging his eyes. “I guess I was wrong, huh?”

“Pete, don’t do this, just —”

He ends the call, chucking his empty cup off the balcony in a fit of anger. His luck had to run out at some point, and it’s finally here.

 

—

 

The new guy’s name is Patrick Stump, and Pete hates him already.

He doesn’t exactly _know_ the dude, but fuck it, he has a right to be stubborn. Who does he think he is, waltzing in and fucking up everything Pete had worked toward for so long? Pete’s worked for years to make a name for Black Cards, and he knows the guys from The Damned Things have worked their asses off, too — and they’re only an opening act, no less. Pete’s never even _heard_ of this guy, but apparently he’s enough of a hotshot that he’s got the entire label starry-eyed and stupid for him. It’s infuriating.

Of course, it’s exactly his luck that when he arrives backstage at the very first venue they’ll play at for this tour, Patrick is waiting for him, bright-eyed and excited. Pete narrows his eyes, lips curling into something like a snarl, and pushes right past him on the way to his dressing room. There’s no way in hell he’s going to be the sweet little tour guide and take him under his wing. No, if Patrick really wants to make it out here in the big leagues, he’s going to have to do it by himself. Pete’s certainly not going to be helping him.

Patrick, unsurprisingly, does not seem to catch on to Pete’s internal monologue, and falls into step behind him, much to his dismay. “Hi, I’m —”

Pete spins around on his heel so quickly that Patrick is taken aback, stumbling backward in surprise, eyes wide and alarmed. “Don't talk to me.”

“...oh?” Patrick reels back a little bit, looking shaken. _Good, fucker. You deserve it._ “Is this, uh, a bad time?”

“You deaf?” Pete asks, scowling down at him. God, Patrick’s even shorter than he is. Tiny. Soft. _Pretty_ , even. Golden hair and blue eyes, no tattoos or scars patterned across his skin, clothes perfectly tailored and clean — he looks like he just walked out of a book or something. He obviously didn’t grow up in the scene like Pete did. He’s not meant for this sort of life. He hasn’t had to climb through the ranks to get his place at the top like Pete has. He hasn’t earned it. “I said not to talk to me. Fuck off to wherever you came from.”

Patrick bristles, taken aback, and Pete feels an odd sense of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach. “That was very uncalled for. I’m just trying to introduce myself.”

“Did I say I wanted to meet you?” Pete retorts, holding up a hand to stop him before he can reply. “I don’t ever recall saying that. So thanks, but no thanks. Kindly fuck off.”

Pete watches him transform into a tiny, white-hot ball of anger in less than a second, and _oh_ , he loves this newfound rawness. So the new kid’s got an angry side. That’s just fine with him. His own blood is laced with fire, anger sizzling hot just under his skin, and he’s ready to bleed out all the rage until there’s nothing left.

“I don’t get what the fuck your problem is,” Patrick growls, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I have done nothing but try to be nice to you, and you act like I’m the worst person you’ve ever met.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Pete spits, shoving him away. “Just because Gabe and Travie like you doesn’t mean that I have to. Newsflash, asshole — the way to get some people to like you isn’t to jump into their tour lineup last minute and steal the headliner spot they’ve earned.”

“Oh, so that’s what this is about!” Patrick exclaims, his expression one of incredulity. “I can’t believe you. What the honest fuck?”

“Some of us have _worked_ for this for years,” Pete sneers, sizing him up. “We’re not all lucky enough to slide in whenever we want. Whose ass did you have to kiss to sign on — or maybe you're the type to fuck your way up the ladder, huh?”

“I’m sorry you’re so fucking butthurt over that, but that wasn’t my decision!” Patrick exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation. His face is reddening through a mix of embarrassment and anger, and Pete is reveling in it. “You know what? Fuck _you_. It’s not like you never took any opportunities you could when you first got signed to Cobra — although now I might be starting to regret it, if it means I have to deal with this shit.”

Pete spots Andy walk into the room out of the corner of his eye, but he still lets the words fall out of his mouth without even thinking about it. “Fine by me, asshole! You want out? Just say the word. I’m sure they’d be _elated._ I know I would be.”

“Hey, what the fuck is going on here?” Andy butts in, grabbing Pete by the elbow. “Pete, may I have a word with you? In private?”

“Sure thing,” Pete grumbles, never once taking his eyes off Patrick as Andy drags him away until they’re around the corner and out of sight.

“What the hell was that?” Andy hisses, his voice a low whisper.

“Patrick and I...have problems,” Pete supplies, looking up to meet Andy’s eyes defiantly. “I’m not gonna pretend to like him when I don’t.”

Andy crosses his arms over his chest. “Like what kind of problems? What ever happened between you two? You just _met_ , Pete. I mean, I know you don’t get along with a good handful of people, but goddamn.”

Pete looks down at the ground, somewhat ashamed of his anger. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s going to give it up. He’s always been pretty good at holding grudges; that’s one of the skills that he’s kept long past his Arma days. “We don’t get along.”

“Yeah, like I’m going to believe that. You’re lucky I know you well enough to know when I’m not going to get anything out of you.” Andy narrows his eyes at him, putting his hands on his hips. “Whatever is going on between you two, you’d better _learn_ how to get along with him, because he’s bunking in your bus, buddy.”

Pete reels back like he’s been slapped. “What? Why would he be bunking on my bus?”

“Think about it, dipshit,” Andy hisses. “My entire band barely fits onto one bus. Then, on your bus, there’s just you and Bebe and some of the crew. The only free bunk is on your bus!”

Well, fuck Pete’s entire life, then.

 

—

 

They manage to get through a couple of shows relatively unscathed — Pete stays on the bus as little as possible, instead hanging out on The Damned Things’ bus when he can, and spending his time talking to Bebe or texting Ashlee when he can’t. However, it can’t be long before something bad happens, he knows that much. The peace has never lasted this long when he’s had beef with someone, especially growing up in the alt scene. Patrick might not be from that whole scene, but it’s not like he’s going to let it go, either. Pete knows about his grudge-holding side — and unlike the rest of him, it’s not pretty.

“You okay Pete?” A rough, calloused hand on his shoulder and a male voice breaks him out of his train of thought, and he looks over to see Spencer, their touring drummer, watching him with a concerned expression. It still blows his mind every time — this dude who once played drums in fucking _Saves the Day_ actually gives a shit about him. It makes him temporarily forget about his simmering anger when he gets to think about stuff like that.

Pete shakes it off, giving him a half-assed smile. “Yeah, I’m all right. Is Nate ready to go, yet? I know Bebe’s off somewhere doing her vocal warm-ups, but I haven’t seen Nate since we got off the bus.”

Spencer shrugs, grinning. “He’s fine, probably just making sure his guitar — I mean, his _baby_ — is perfectly tuned before he gets out here. You know how he is.”

It makes Pete smile, because he knows exactly how that is; Andy had been that same way about his drums when they’d both been in Arma. If anybody so much as scuffed that drumset, even by accident, someone was getting chewed out that night. Most of the time, it had been him; it's a wonder they're still friends (or, even more, that Andy hadn't killed him for it a long time ago). “I mean, as long as he’s back by showtime, we’re good to go.”

He creeps ever closer to the stage, watching as Patrick works the crowd during his last song of the night, the kids falling over themselves to reach out for him. It’s kind of _ridiculous_ , in a way. Pete had never even heard of him before this tour kicked off, but he already has such a big fanbase? There’s no way. Pete chalks it up to Cobra being a pretty popular label and the cult following most of their acts seem to gain once they sign — nothing more, nothing less.

“The kids really seem to like him,” Bebe murmurs from right behind him, startling him so much that he nearly jumps straight out of his skin. “I mean, he’s got a good voice. You can’t deny that.”

“Like hell I can’t,” Pete mutters to himself, annoyed now that he has to start thinking about Patrick again. The anger prickles on the back of his neck because, to some degree, it’s true. Pete can see why Gabe and Travie suddenly got starstruck by this dude, but it’s not like their rose-colored glasses are going to transfer to him. It takes more than a voice to win him over.

Bebe shrugs, resting her head on his shoulder and staring out at the stage with dark, half-lidded eyes. “I don’t know, Pete. I don’t know what ever happened between you two, but Patrick seems like —”

“Please don’t finish that sentence.” Pete winces, his muscles tensing, and Bebe pulls away from him hesitantly. “Just...trust me, okay? I have a bad feeling about him that won’t go away, and you can’t really get me to change my mind about that.”

Before Bebe has the chance to respond to that, Nate and Spencer run up, adjusting their in-ears and gesturing toward the stage. It's a small venue, and a smaller show means back-to-back performances for them. Nate puts a hand on his shoulder, grinning with excitement. “You guys ready to go on? We’re gonna head out.”

Patrick waves goodbye to the crowd for the fifth and final time as he exits the stage, and Pete rolls his eyes. He catches Bebe’s gaze and motions toward the stage. “Come on, let’s get out there before the kids start getting impatient with us. We’ve got a show to put on.”

Pete waits for Nate and Spencer to head onstage, hears the cheering fill the venue as they wait in the shadows. His heart lifts just a little bit; the roar of the crowd always does that to him, reminds him that it’s going to be a good night. He and Bebe head out last, as always, but right as he’s stepping into view, Patrick intercepts him. Pete nearly fucking walks straight into him before he catches himself, scowling impatiently, and tries to push past him.

“Where are you going so fast, Pete?” Patrick whispers, catching his wrist and pulling him uncomfortably close as he heads backstage. Pete nearly has a heart attack right there in front of the crowd, eyes widening.

“What the — ?” Pete stutters out, watching Bebe’s confusion out of the corner of his eye.

_“Your band sucks,”_ Patrick whispers into his ear, breath hot and wet against his face, and Pete barely has time to register his smug smile before those full, pink lips are pressed gently against his cheek. “And you know what? I think you’re just afraid of losing your fans to me. After all...you _can_ hear them right now, can’t you?” His breath catches in his throat as Patrick's nails dig into his shoulder, and the energetic roar of the crowd filling his ears lets him know that his shock is in plain sight. Fuck, now they think he and Patrick are _friends_ , that they're a _thing_ ...or...or...whatever _._ That’s...something that can’t happen.

“You're fucking evil,” Pete breathes back, hoping that the flashes of the cameras haven't captured the blush hot in his cheeks.

“Not evil, just infuriating.” Patrick winks at him, a bitter smirk curling up the ends of his lips. “You asked for this, baby. You want to give me the asshole treatment? Be prepared to reap what you sow. Have a nice set!”

Pete makes a mental note to get back at him however and whenever possible. Nobody messes with Pete Wentz and gets away with it, and _especially_ not Patrick Stump.

 

-

 

As soon as they’re back to the hotel for the night, and he catches Patrick alone in the hallway, he makes his move.

“What the fuck was that?” Pete demands, shoving Patrick into the wall between their hotel rooms. Patrick spins around, eyes wide, blinking at him like he's got no idea what's going on as he undoes his tie. His eyes are glazed over with a blank look, but Pete can see right through his attempt at a poker face.

“What do you mean?” Patrick asks, quirking one eyebrow at him. 

“You know exactly what I mean, pretty boy.” Pete steps toward him, the anger clouding his senses. “Why the fuck would you do that? Insult me — actually, worse, you insult _my band_  — and then make everyone think that we’re friends or something? As if I’d want to be connected to you.”

Patrick just shrugs, smirking ever so slightly, confidence exuding from those pretty pink lips and mischievously sparkling eyes. “Sorry, I'm not sure I’m understanding what you’re saying, Pete. Try to explain it to me, would you?”

_Oh, so you want an explanation?_ Pete grits his teeth, balling his hands into fists. _You’ll get an explanation, fucker._

As soon as his fist connects with Patrick’s nose, a mixed sense of pride and regret fills his chest. The shorter man stumbles backward, one hand flying up to his face, eyes widening when he pulls it away to see red streaking across his skin. An expression crosses his face that Pete can only describe as _betrayal_ , like he didn't expect Pete to go that far. He shakes his head, sending dark, thick blood dripping onto the floor, and Pete is suddenly hit with the realization that he's made a terrible mistake.

“Patrick, I —”

“Don't.”

Patrick’s silent for a minute, wiping the blood from his nose, and Pete’s stomach drops with a terrifying mix of guilt and anticipation. When the singer finally looks up, his eyes are glimmering with bittersweet rage, and Pete feels his heartbeat stutter a bit in fear. Patrick could totally, definitely, without a doubt kill him. Right here, right now, on the spot. His hands curl into fists, and Pete swallows hard. “So that’s how you want to play, huh? I guess I’m a bit late to the game.”

The punch catches him straight in his right eye, and he stumbles backward and into the other wall from the sheer force of the impact. For such a little guy, Patrick is fucking _strong._ Before he has the chance to regain his bearings, Patrick’s on him, pushing him up against the wall and swinging again. Pete manages to squirm out of the way of his fists, ducking to the side instead. He draws back and punches Patrick straight in the stomach, feeling all of the air leave his lungs at once. Despite having the wind knocked out of him, Patrick’s got scary fast reflexes, and he catches Pete’s wrist, bending it backwards without a second thought.

“Fuck!” Pete exclaims in pain, kicking blindly and hoping his foot connects. He manages to catch Patrick in the knee, and they both stumble back from the impact, breathing heavily.

Neither of them wants to make the next move, eyeing each other up from opposite sides of the hallway. The pain behind his eye is throbbing, like, _pulsating_ , and it’s kind of making him sick. He’s not going to show weakness, though, not in front of Patrick. He hates feeling weak in front of people he dislikes, and he’s not going to back down. He started this, and he’s going to finish it.

He especially hates that Patrick still looks good like this, even covered with sweat and blood running down his face. _Hates_ it. In fact, he wouldn't call it anything less than infuriating.

He goes to rush at Patrick again, but he barely makes it two feet before something coming at him from behind catches his arms and yanks him back so suddenly that he stumbles over his feet. He hits the ground hard, knocking the air out of his lungs, but his legs are still thrashing wildly. He does his best to wriggle out of the hold, but whoever it is has him right where they want him. “Let me go!”

“No, Pete! You’ve got to stop this!”

It’s a feminine voice, and Pete turns around to confirm his suspicions; Bebe’s pulling him back with all her might, her lips drawn into a scowl in the midst of her strain. Across the room, Andy is holding Patrick equally as tightly. The vocalist is struggling hard against Andy’s hold, kicking furiously, but at the sight of it, Pete just feels... _numb,_ for once. He goes limp in Bebe’s arms without warning, both of them sinking to the floor, his head throbbing like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. He suddenly wants nothing more than to sleep for days and not have to deal with this, whatever this is.

And then Gabe slams the door to his hotel room and stalks into the hallway, bristling with anger, and Pete starts to think that maybe he’s fucked up a little bit.

“Both of you! Meeting in my room! Right now!”

 

—

 

“Bebe, Andy,” Gabe says, sighing sadly. “Thank you two for stopping that before it got any worse. And thank you, Joe, for letting me know.”

Pete shares a look with Joe, and narrows his eyes at him. Joe’s supposed to be the one who understands him, the one who’s always got his back. _Traitor._

“You’re all free to go back to your rooms. I’ve got this covered now,” Gabe says, sending the three of them tired smiles. The trio gets up warily, keeping an eye on the situation, before hesitantly making their way out the door. After it shuts, Gabe sighs so hard that he shudders, dragging a hand down his face.

“As for _you two,_ ” Gabe turns to Pete and Patrick without warning, still towering over them enough to feel like a giant. Pete's inwardly glad he's not the only one shrinking away in fear, here. “I don't give a shit if you like each other or hate each other’s guts. But the label cares, and the fans care, so it's in your best interests to fucking _snap out of it_ and at least act friendly toward each other. You're lucky I didn’t call Travie.”

Pete sneaks a quick glance at Patrick, who looks just as scared as he feels. A flicker of guilt creeps through his chest as he catches sight of traces of blood that the singer hadn’t quite caught before the meeting, but he pushes it down. He's gonna be sporting a fucking black eye for days. He doesn't need to feel bad about making pretty boy’s nose bleed.

“All right, so we're best fucking friends now,” Pete deadpans, keeping his voice as even and nonchalant as possible. “I'm sorry for punching you in your perfect face, Patrick. I’m sure you're very sorry, too. Can we go now?”

“I'm serious, Pete,” Gabe says, his tone more serious than Pete's ever heard him before. It shakes him right down to his bones — Gabe’s always been an easygoing, fun dude. If he's got Gabe this strung out about it, he must have really fucked up this time. “How is it supposed to look if two of the label’s three main acts go on stage looking like hell every night because they're too fucking stubborn to put their differences aside?”

Neither of them speaks, apparently figuring out that they’ve pretty much just had their asses handed to them. Gabe just sighs again, burying his face in his hands. He looks like he's about two seconds away from just fucking screaming, and Pete actually feels kinda sorry, for his sake. Gabe’s done a lot for him in the past. He has to make this up to him.

“I'll be serious about this, Gabe,” Pete says quietly, all eyes falling on him. “If that's what will make this tour run smoothly and keep the label execs happy, then this won't happen again.”

“Same here,” Patrick agrees, shuffling awkwardly in his seat. “I’m sorry that this is the foot I had to get off on with you guys. I'll do better and make you proud, I promise.”

“You’d better,” Gabe mutters, shaking his head in disappointment. “You’re both _so_ fucking lucky I am letting you off with a warning. Next time, you won’t be so lucky — so make sure there isn’t a next time.”

They sit in silence for a minute before Gabe shoos them out, telling them to go and get some sleep for tomorrow. They both stumble out of Gabe’s room quietly, heads down in shame, still not speaking to each other. They stand there in the hallway until Pete’s sure that everyone else has gone back to their rooms, before he finally breaks the awkward silence between them.

“Look,” Pete huffs out, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

He can tell that Patrick doesn’t believe it at all, but still. It’s a place to start. “I’m sorry too.”

Pete’s silent for a minute, awkwardly staring down at his feet before untying his tongue enough to figure out what he wants to say. “Patrick, I just wanted to say that —”

“You know what? Shut up, Pete,” Patrick spits, shoving him backward. The fire in his eyes that Pete recognizes from earlier burns bright, reignited under the sourness of the faux apology. “Get the fuck away from me. Just because I'm sorry doesn't mean that I’d be stupid enough to let you hurt me again.”

“Right, because _you're_ my main priority,” Pete sneers, huffing out a sharp breath in annoyance. “I knew I was right to hate you from the beginning. You'd be perfectly happy to take my spotlight and ruin my career, wouldn't you?”

“Just don't talk to me,” Patrick says coldly, turning away from him. “That’s what you wanted from the start, right? It's probably the best idea for both of us.”

“You know what? Fine!” Pete exclaims, backing toward his hotel room, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know why I even try with you.”

“Oh, you _try?_ ” Patrick counters, spinning around on his heel. “The only thing you’ve _tried_ is to get me to drop out of this tour, and guess what? It’s not gonna work. So you can go back to your room and keep your big, stupid fucking _ego_ to yourself, and I’ll stay out of your life. We got a deal?”

Pete clenches his jaw, staring him down. Patrick doesn’t look like he wants to fight anymore; he just looks tired, emotionally and physically. The blood crusted on his face is ugly and startling against the pale white of his skin, and the bruises blossoming where Pete can see them paint a dark, black-and-blue story for the world to read. It looks a lot like the kind of thing he signed to Cobra to get away from, to escape from the scene, and his stomach twists violently. Suddenly he, too, feels tired. “Yeah. We’ve got a deal.”

 

—

 

“You’re lucky that we’ve only been playing smaller shows so far.” Pete sighs, because he knows he’s in for an earful from his makeup artist. Again. “I can’t even imagine how bad it would’ve looked if you walked into an arena with this black eye. Imagine your face on the big screen like that — I don’t know if anything I could do would make that foundation stay put with how much you run around and sweat on those stages, and those gigantic screens showing it off would only make it worse.”

“I know, Hayley,” Pete says, choosing his words carefully. He’s been working with Hayley for years, and while she’s a damn good makeup artist and a wizard with hair — hers is bright orange-red, but somehow she makes it work — she can also be very hot-headed, much like himself, so he’s going to be subjected to her criticism for a while. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m sorry before you actually believe it?”

She pauses for a few seconds, actually taking the time to think about it, tapping her fingers against the side of her face. Her nail polish is bright blue and chipped, indicative of all the work she has to do and how little time she has to herself lately. She looks up, narrowing her eyes at him, and smirks. “A hundred and four,” she finally says, getting back to work, mixing foundation shades to try and create the perfect one for his skin tone. “Start counting.”

“I don’t mean to make your job harder for you, you know,” Pete murmurs, the shame heavy in his gaze. She’s been doing so much lately, from makeup and hair every night to the beginning stages of starting up her own hair dye company. Pete wishes he’d been more supportive of her, taken how hard she works into consideration. “You do know that, right? You’re the only person I trust with this job; there’s a reason I always beg for you when the label sends us off somewhere.”

“I know,” Hayley sighs, pausing to look down at him. “And I love working with you. I know you’re a good guy, underneath all that bullshit you put up as a front.” She stops to kneel down next to him, puts a hand on his knee. “But you have to be more careful, Pete. This isn’t Arma. You’re not in the punk scene anymore. Black Cards is different. Fighting doesn’t work for your image anymore — and it sure as _hell_ doesn’t work for Bebe’s image.”

Pete feels a twinge of guilt in his chest, biting the inside of his cheek uncomfortably, and ducks his head to avoid her gaze. He hadn’t even thought of how much his little outburst was going to affect Bebe, who has been pretty much one of the only constants in his life, at this point. She’d believed in him when nobody else did, stayed with him and made music they could be proud of when all the odds were against them. He has to be better — if not for himself, then for her, and Hayley, and everyone he actually cares about. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t even know something was going on between you and Patrick,” Hayley says, dabbing a bit of foundation under his eye to test if it matches his skin tone. He winces — both at her choice of words and her fingers brushing over the bruise — but he does his best to stay still. “I’d never even seen you two talk before. I didn’t think you knew each other.”

“We didn’t,” Pete admits sheepishly. “But then he _stole_ my stage time, and that’s a problem. And then, he thinks he can insult me and pretend like we’re friends in front of everybody! Like, who the fuck does that?”

“So…” Hayley trails off, raising an eyebrow at him quizzically. “You despise this guy because he got signed to the label and hurt your feelings once?”

“I swear, it’s not like I just decided to hate him out of the fucking blue. I’m not the only antagonist, here. How does he just think he can mess with me and get away with it? Like, what goes on in his head?” Pete rants, feeling himself start to bristle with anger, and the shame starts to melt away, just like it always does when he lets himself get carried away. “Can you believe that? Honestly, I don’t really feel that stupid for punching him. He deserved it.”

“You’re being stupid, Pete,” Hayley says, completely deadpan, and Pete almost does a double take.

“What? I—”

“—am being completely stupid,” Hayley interrupts him, turning back to look over her work. “Sit still, I need to make sure the foundation is blended into your skin well enough that it looks natural. It’ll smudge if you keep moving while I’m trying to apply it.”

“Sorry,” Pete says, shifting uncomfortably. “How am I being stupid, again? I have a completely valid reason to be angry.”

“Sure, but that’s no reason to _hate_ the guy when it wasn’t even his decision,” Hayley says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Patrick is actually a really nice guy, Pete. If you weren’t such an asshole to him to begin with, I feel like you two could’ve gotten along really well.”

Pete scoffs at that. “I can’t believe you’re saying that when you’re literally trying to cover a black eye that _he gave me_.”

Hayley shrugs nonchalantly, turning her palms up to face the ceiling as if to say _what can you do?_ “All I’m saying is that all of this could’ve been avoided. I love you, Pete — you _know_ I do — but I’ve never seen you act like such a jackass before. You’re smarter than this. Better than this.”

Pete grumbles angrily, sinking down into his chair. She can be right about this, but it doesn’t mean that he has to like it.

 

—

 

Pete's about two seconds away from smacking his head straight into the bar countertop as hard as he can and hoping it knocks him out.

They'd all gone out to the bar after the show, seeing as they actually had a hotel tonight, but Pete hasn't even been able to enjoy it because of a certain someone a couple seats down. These annoying guys keep flirting with Patrick, and it's driving him crazy. Normally, it wouldn't bother him, but it's _Patrick,_  so of course it bothers him.

Just then, one of the dumbasses tries out a particularly bad pick up line, and Pete thinks he's actually gonna kill somebody right then and there.

“Would you give it a rest?” Pete groans, burying his face in his hands. He's had enough of listening to Patrick getting hit on tonight while he's very obviously _alone._ He knows that it isn't really Patrick’s fault, but the bitterness and spite still lingering just wants the world to stop rubbing it in that literally everyone in the universe likes Patrick better than him. “He's obviously not into you. Take the hint and leave him the fuck alone.”

Two of the dudes shoot a glare at Pete, but subtly slink off knowing that they can't get away with anything — at least, as long as Pete's watching. It makes him feel at least a little better, knowing that the crisis is starting to subside.

Except one of the assholes won’t listen to him, still crowding into Patrick’s space, either unaware or not caring that he’s shrinking away in discomfort. Pete's stomach turns uncomfortably, and he wants to look away, but he can't. If something bad happens and he could have stopped it, he's never going to forgive himself. Whether he likes it or not, it's time to step in.

_It’s for the label,_ Pete reassures himself, downing the rest of his beer to give him the liquid courage he needs to do this. _I’m only doing this so we stay on good terms with the label._

“Hey,” Pete says, a little louder this time. “Leave him alone.”

The guy leaning closest to Patrick finally looks up and stares him dead in the eyes, and Pete’s stomach flips uncomfortably. He gives Pete a look that says, _‘what’re you gonna do about it?’_ Feeling himself bristle, Pete steels himself as much as possible. He is not gonna let this guy make him flinch. This just got personal.

“How about _you_ leave _us_ alone?” The dude says, his hands curling into fists. Pete can see Patrick shrinking into himself out of the corner of his eye, and he tenses automatically. That's never a good sign. “Pretty boy and I here were having a nice conversation, and now you're interrupting us. That's not very nice of you.”

A sudden, unexpected rush of fire courses through Pete’s veins, because _pretty boy?_ That's _his_ nickname for Patrick _._ It belongs to him, not this douchebag that probably has a dozen violations to his name. An oddly territorial sense of anger floods his senses, and suddenly he's seeing red. “Please, like he'd actually want to talk to someone like you. Patrick, come on, the guys are waiting for us outside. Let him go.”

Pete actually has no idea where the rest of the guys are, but he wants to get them out of there as fast as possible. He's been in enough bar fights before to know when one is brewing, and he's got a feeling that this one might be particularly ugly. Patrick starts to stand, but the guy firmly pushes him back down onto the barstool, taking a step toward Pete. “How about you make me, dickwad?”

Pete widens his stance and squares his shoulders, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. This guy wants a fight? Fine. He’ll get a fight. Suddenly, he's about ten years younger, adrenaline pumping through his veins, fresh off the stage from an Arma set and ready to take on the world. “All right. Go ahead, asshole. Whenever you're ready.”

The guy’s a lot bigger than him, but Pete knows the way assholes like this fight. They don't think about strategy — they just use brute force to get what they want. And, sure enough, when he swings, Pete's able to duck out of the way to dodge the blow, sliding over to get out of his way. He shakes his head, clearing away his nerves, and aims a sharp jab at the guy’s ribcage.

Of course, it doesn't do much, since the dude is practically made of rock, but they stumble far enough from Patrick that Pete doesn't have to worry about him getting hurt or dragged into it. He nearly misses receiving a punch to the jaw, hears the air whistling past his ear, and uses the moment to take the opportunity to strike back.

His fist connects with the asshole’s nose, and Pete feels, rather than hears, the crack. A collective gasp goes up from the crowd, and Pete briefly catches sight of Patrick opening his mouth to talk to him, but whatever he was about to say gets lost in the deafening roar of the crowd around them. The other dude staggers back, blood dripping down his face, and grits his teeth in annoyance.

“Oh, you're gonna pay for that, fucker.”

Suddenly, there's searing pain exploding behind his left eye, and he stumbles backward, tripping over his feet and landing hard on the floor. The crowd is in an uproar now — a conflicting mix of laughter and shouting — but all of that is getting drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears. His eye feels like it's pulsating with heat, and a quiet grunt of pain escapes him. Out of the corner of his one good eye, he can see Patrick jumping to his feet, practically bristling with anger.

“This is over!” Patrick snaps, shoving his way over to bend down next to Pete. He examines his eye, wincing at how painful it looks. Something in his gaze is softer, more vulnerable now, and Pete almost doesn't want his pity. Patrick turns his head to glare up at the offender, one hand still lingering on Pete's shoulder. “Get the fuck away from us. We're done here.”

The brute attempts to nudge Patrick out of the way with his boot, making an expression Pete can only classify as a growl. “Get out of the way, twink, unless you want to get the shit knocked out of you like your buddy, here.”

Patrick slowly gets back to his feet, all 5’5” of him trembling with unchecked anger. Pete opens his mouth to tell him to stay out of it, that he'll only get hurt, but Patrick shoots him a look that silences him on the spot. He knows that no matter what he says, Patrick isn't going to listen to him. Not like this.

“Did you not hear me? I _said_ , this is over!” Patrick exclaims, shoving the asshole back as hard as he can. Pete has to admit that, for a little guy, Patrick is pretty strong — after all, he’d proven that in the fight that got them into all this trouble in the first place. However, he’s still not strong enough to take on this guy nearly a foot taller and _way_ more muscular than him. Even with his shoulders squared and fury radiating off of him, he still looks like David squaring up against Goliath.

“You think so?” The asshole sneers, and Pete starts to pick himself up off the floor to answer to that, but Patrick gets to him first.

“I sure do.” It’s so fast, it happens mostly as a blur, but Pete can’t help but admire the sheer assertiveness of what comes next. Patrick’s foot comes up, kicking _hard_ into the dude’s groin, and Pete lets out a low whistle of amusement. He didn't know Patrick was capable of fighting _that_ dirty, especially with boots on. He's impressed.

The man’s knees give out beneath him, and he falls to the ground, groaning in pain. The crowd around them is going insane, but all that Pete can focus on is the way Patrick breathes heavily, wiping his hands on his pants nervously. He gets to his feet slowly, still somewhat dazed at how quickly Patrick had ended the fight. He opens his mouth, searching for something to say, and finds that nothing will come out.

“Come on, Pete.” Patrick whips around, grabbing his hand and dragging him toward the exit. The crowd parts itself for him, nobody daring to step foot in his path in the midst of his rage. Pete’s eyes widen, very visibly surprised, but he goes along with it nonetheless. “We're leaving. _Now._ ”

“Roger that,” Pete replies, raising his free hand in a mock salute. For once, he has no argument.

They manage to hail a cab back to the hotel — Patrick pays, since Pete can't see well enough to find his wallet — and Patrick whisks him into the elevator quickly enough that nobody has a chance to ask any questions.

Patrick leans heavily against the wall, closing his eyes and resting his head back against the wall as the doors close. The car begins its slow, shaky crawl to the fifth floor, and Pete finally allows himself to take a good look at his unlikely companion. His hair is disheveled, normally-styled bangs falling down messily over his eyes. His shirt's come untucked, too, not to mention his tie being half undone. In short, when you put the two of them together, you can tell it's been a rough night.

They end up in Patrick’s room — which is, thankfully, empty, since Joe hasn't yet returned — Pete laying on one of the beds as Patrick attempts to fix up his eye with a limited amount of resources. They've got a makeshift ice pack out of a Ziploc bag and ice, a cell phone flashlight, and not much else, but Pete supposes it's better than nothing. He can figure out the rest in the morning.

“Stop moving,” Patrick mutters, skimming his fingers along Pete’s jawline to keep his head in place. “I can’t exactly help you out if the ice pack keeps falling off. Hold this to your eye, and wait here while I get something to wipe you off with.”

Patrick disappears into the small bathroom, and for once, Pete does what he’s told. Staring up at the ceiling, he wonders when he life got so complicated that he had to nearly get his ass kicked for someone he doesn’t even like just to keep up a good reputation. He’s got a black eye because of Patrick. Again.

He returns with a dingy white hand towel and two full rolls of toilet paper, and Pete raises an eyebrow in confusion. “What's all this for?”

“Did you even see all the scrapes and shit you got?” Silence. “Okay, I'm going to take that as a no. I'm going to wrap the ice pack in a hand towel, so it's not as freezing on your face, and then you're going to _stay still_ as I try to clean out the cuts and wipe off any blood. Got it?”

Even if Pete hadn't understood, a response would pretty much be useless, because Patrick gets to work immediately anyway. Patrick scoots farther down the bed and rolls up the end of Pete’s skinny jeans, and — oh. _Shit_. There's a nasty cut on his shin, complete with a rapidly purpling bruise around the area. He must have been so focused on his eye that he didn't even take notice of the blood soaking through the denim.

“How the fuck did I do that?” Pete mumbles, thinking out loud.

“You caught the edge of a table pretty hard when you went down,” Patrick says, never stopping to take his eyes off of his work. “I was afraid you were gonna black out on me.”

Pete winces as he dabs gingerly at the cut, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from jerking away. It _burns_ , but he's not going to be a baby. Not here. Not in front of him.

Patrick finishes cleaning him up, tending to the rest of his scrapes with the same precision, and Pete breathes a sigh of relief. It's been a long, exhausting, and slightly embarrassing night, and he's never been so ready to go back to his room and crash. He sits up slowly, trying not to make himself too dizzy, and gets to his feet without too much trouble.

“Thanks for fixing me up,” Pete says, fumbling around the unfamiliar sentiment attached to the words. “Am I clear to go, Doc?”

Patrick nods, giving him a once-over. “I think you're gonna be all right. That cut shouldn't need stitches, I don't think, but if it reopens, you can't ignore it, all right?” Pete opens his mouth to protest, but Patrick simply raises a hand to silence him. “Don't argue with me on this. I know you. Just _take care of yourself_ , please.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pete mutters, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “I got it.”

“You know, I hate to admit it, but you kind of saved my ass out there,” Patrick says sheepishly, wringing his hands like he doesn't know what to do with them. “So thank you, I guess.”

He looks up all of a sudden, connecting his gaze with Pete's, and Pete feels like he's just been on the receiving end of an electric shock. His chest tightens with an emotion he doesn't recognize, and the thought of whatever he was going to say next flies directly out the window because _what the fuck?_ Why had Pete never noticed the light freckles scattered across his cheeks? And since _when_ did Patrick have a ring of gold in his eyes?

He needs to go back to his room, like, right now. The alcohol has definitely made his brain fuzzy.

“Don’t worry about it,” Pete finally huffs out, shaking off whatever had just taken hold of him momentarily. “I might be an asshole, but I'm not the kind of guy to let that happen to anyone. I used to be part of the hardcore scene back in Chicago. I've been around long enough to handle guys like him.”

“Mhmm,” Patrick hums, smiling slightly. “And that’s why you needed my help there at the end to get him off your ass.”

_Aaaaand_ there goes the rest of whatever he was feeling.

“Fuck you,” Pete grumbles, turning on his heel and tossing the ice pack onto the bed. “Guess that’ll teach me to do something nice for you, huh?”

“Wait, no,” Patrick sighs, grabbing him by the wrist and spinning him back around. And the worst part is that Pete wants to leave, wants to walk right out the door and never look back because God knows he's been humiliated enough tonight, but he’s trapped in Patrick’s ocean blue gaze and he _can’t move._ His brain is sending all the right signals, but somehow they’re getting lost on the way to his feet. “I was just teasing you. I really appreciate what you did for me out there. I know we haven’t exactly...gotten off on the right foot, so that was really nice of you.”

Pete opens his mouth, searching for words that won't come. A hot blush is burning in his cheeks, and before he knows it, Patrick's got a hand fisted in his shirt, tugging him down to kiss him. His lips are warm, soft, and Pete’s lungs do this stupid thing where he kind of forgets to breathe. He blinks in surprise, too shocked to remember to kiss back, and just like that, it's over as quickly as it started. He's nearly left wishing that it would have lasted longer.

Patrick blinks up at him awkwardly, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. Pete’s still frozen with shock, stuck in place, because _what?_ Patrick stutters to make up for it enough for the both of them, stepping backwards and desperately trying to escape the situation. “Right. Okay. So, uh, goodnight. Thanks again.”

Pete stumbles over a goodbye and quickly makes an exit, trying to ignore the flipping in his stomach as he heads down the hallway to the room he's sharing with Bebe. _I really need to get out of my own head._

 

—

 

“Pete, wake up.”

  
He groans, trying to shake off whoever’s trying to wake him, but it’s no use; they must really want him to get up. He rolls over, making bleary eye contact with Bebe, who looks just as tired as he does. “ _Whassgoinon?_ ” he mumbles, pulling the covers up around his face. “M’alarm hasn’t even gone off yet.”

“Gabe’s having a meeting downstairs,” Bebe sighs, yanking the comforter off of him all at once. “Come on, we’re gonna be the last ones there.”

“So?” Pete grumbles, reluctantly sitting up.

“I let you sleep in as long as I could,” Bebe offers, shoving the last of her things into her suitcase and zipping it shut. “Besides, there’ll be breakfast.”

“I love Gabe, but…” Pete grumbles, stretching far above his head. “Sometimes I hate him. Just _sometimes_.”

“Breakfast, Pete,” Bebe repeats, yanking the covers off of him. He shivers as a cold rush of air hits him, his eyes flying open. Okay, he’s _awake_ now. “Up. Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

Fifteen minutes later, Pete and Bebe stumble into the elevator, still tired, but ready to go as they’ll ever be. Upon arriving on the main floor, their eyes are met with the sight of the so-called “meeting” that’s been arranged. Gabe’s somehow managed to push a couple of the tables in the complimentary breakfast lounge together, creating a mock “conference table” like the one in his office back in Chicago. It seems more official than everyone crowded together in a hotel room, Pete has to admit, but it still seems a little bit ridiculous amongst the rest of their surroundings. Really, the only thing missing is Travie.

He and Bebe appear to be the last ones to arrive, which is a bit embarrassing, but he takes a seat at the table and keeps his mouth shut. Of course, it’s just his luck that he ends up sitting right across from Patrick, because fate hates him. However, Patrick doesn’t make a move to say anything, so he takes it as a sign to stay quiet. He looks up, meeting Patrick's eyes for just the slightest second, before both of them quickly drop their gazes. Pete tells himself Patrick's not blushing from across the table, and neither is he. _Okay, so we're not talking about last night. That's cool. I can do that. I can totally do that._

“Why are we having a meeting?” Pete asks Gabe, genuinely confused. “There’s nothing going on, unless something happened that I don’t know about.”

Gabe narrows his eyes at him, unusually accusatory for someone who's usually his friend. “Bebe told me she found you asleep with a black eye last night when she got back to your room.” _Oh, right,_ Pete thinks, the wheels beginning to turn in his head now.

“I mean, yeah, but it’s nothing to worry about,” Pete says, pointing at his eye. “See? The swelling has already gone down a bunch from last night, and we’ve got enough time before the next show to get the rest of it taken care of. No big deal.”

“I thought we already had this discussion, though,” Gabe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He turns to face Patrick, who shrinks down in his chair in something that looks a lot like shame. “And I might have expected this from Pete — no offense, buddy — but certainly not from you. I know you're not the fighting type.”

“I...I...” Patrick stutters, his face flushing an even deeper shade of red. It hits Pete low in the gut, for some reason, and seeing Patrick uncomfortable makes him uncomfortable, too, in a way he can’t explain.

“It's not his fault,” Pete cuts in before Gabe can say anything else, earning surprised expressions from everyone at the table. “He didn't punch me. Some dick at the bar did.”

“It's true,” Patrick confirms a few seconds later, albeit somewhat bashfully. “Dude wouldn't leave me alone, so Pete stood up for me. Things could have been... _bad_ if he wasn’t there.”

“Patrick actually fixed me up last night,” Pete adds, the truth of the incident tumbling out of his mouth without a second thought. “I’d look a lot worse right now if it wasn’t for him, so you should probably be thanking him, actually.”

Patrick lifts his gaze from the table to look back up at him, something like gratitude flashing in his eyes. Something flutters in Pete’s stomach and he bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to read into it too much. They’re both silent, but nothing more needs to be said — it’s pretty clear that they’re telling the truth from the way that they’re actually agreeing on something for once.

“...oh,” Gabe finally says, gaze awkwardly darting between the two of them. “Well...all right. I’m sorry I made that assumption, then. There’s still the problem that Pete has a black eye again, but that can be solved with makeup, I presume?”

Hayley nods, grabbing a pen to write something down on her arm. “Yeah, I just need to make sure that we re-order that one foundation shade that matches with Pete’s skin tone. We’re nearly out from last time.”

“All right, then I think we’re done here,” Gabe says, clapping his hands together loud enough that it makes nearly everyone at the table jump. “Make sure that you’ve got all your stuff together before we leave — we don’t want another incident with leaving stuff in hotel rooms. That means you especially, Joe.”

Joe groans, burying his face in his hands. “That was _one time_ , Gabe. I haven't left anything in a hotel room in years. I've made sure of that.”

“Still!” Gabe chirps, jumping up from his chair. “Everyone, get your shit together, and get your asses out to the buses! No time to lose!”

After the meeting’s dismissed, Pete just decides to head straight to the bus, seeing as he’s already got all of his luggage with him, and there’s really no point in sticking around when he could be going back to sleep in his bunk. It’s already been a weird enough morning. Sleeping it off seems to be the best option if he wants to keep his sanity intact, which he very much intends to do on this tour.

“Pete, wait up!” He turns around to find Hayley running to catch up to him, the wind whipping her bright hair right into her face.

“What’s up?” Pete asks when she’s caught up to him, one eyebrow raised inquisitively. “You couldn’t have talked to me during the meeting?”

“What, I’m not allowed to talk to my friend unless I’m applying foundation to his eye?” she retorts, still trying to catch her breath. “ _God_ , I’m out of shape.”

“I mean, you can say that again,” Pete jokes, grinning just a bit. “Maybe you could start, like, doing yoga poses while you put on all our makeu—”

“Hey,” Hayley interrupts him, softer than he’s ever heard her speak before. “Just let me talk, stupid. What I _wanted_ to say was that I’m glad you and Patrick are getting along okay. You did a good thing last night.”

_Last night,_ he thinks, his mind going directly to the two of them in Patrick’s hotel room, his hand closed around Pete’s wrist, his shirt curled tightly in Patrick’s grasp. He’s still stuck on the way Patrick had pulled him down, so sure of himself in the moment, and that stupid, beautiful mouth moving against his. It makes no sense at all, and he can’t stop thinking about it.

“I guess,” Pete mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. He doesn’t know how to feel — about _anything_.  

“I know I was hard on you about him before,” she murmurs, a smile turning up the corners of her lips. “But I’m proud of you. You really proved yourself.”

He shrugs, turning back toward the bus; the bus he has to share with Patrick, no less, who will be right across the aisle from him for the rest of this tour. _Great._ “I mean, if you say so.”

“Let’s load up!” Gabe exclaims from behind them, pushing his sunglasses up and grinning at them. “We’ve got a long road ahead of us. Time to get moving.”

“Good,” Pete mumbles, getting on board and away from everybody’s prying eyes as fast as he can. He doesn’t want to be looked at or talked to right now; he needs time to himself, and a lot of sleep.

 

—

 

A few weeks later, it’s the beginning of June, and Pete wakes up on his birthday to find Joe and Andy hovering over his bed, grinning like the idiots they are, holding a cupcake with some candles sloppily shoved into it as a birthday breakfast. It’s burnt on the bottom, purple icing dripping sloppily down the side, and they don’t even have a wrapper to keep the crumbs from getting everywhere. They've managed to do this for him every year, and he never gets tired of it, even if he has no idea where they got the cupcake mix, or how they made this fucking monstrosity of a dessert.

It’s perfect. Needless to say, Pete loves his friends.

After he’s scarfed down his “breakfast” and been sang to at least three times (by Joe, mainly), he settles down on the couch with the both of them on either side of him, content with his life for the moment being. They don’t have a show tonight, for once, which lines up _perfectly_ with his plans — he has to make a note to himself to thank Gabe for that one.

“So, Pete,” Joe starts, bouncing his knee excitedly. “What were you planning on doing tonight? Because I think it’s time for a bit of a celebration.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Pete teases, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. Joe jerks away, laughing, and it makes the smile on Pete's face grow even wider than before. “I was thinking I might take it easy this year, just hang out at home. Clubs aren’t really my style anymore.”

Joe stares at Pete in faux horror, his jaw dropping dramatically. “Who _ate_ my best friend Pete Wentz and replaced him with this monster?”

“Please don’t say ‘ate’ when referring to another human being,” Andy groans, looking rather traumatized as he buries his face in his hands. “It took me two weeks to get it out of my head the _last_ time we talked about vore.”

Pete makes a disgusted sound at the back of his throat, but can’t help the laughter that bubbles up afterwards. That's definitely not what he was thinking at all, but now that Andy's brought it up...well, it's his birthday. This is the one day of the year he's allowed to be deliberately annoying to his friends, especially Andy. “Who said anything about vore? You just brought that one on yourself, buddy. I wasn’t even gonna bring it up this time, but you just reminded me. Thanks, pal.”

Andy sighs and closes his eyes, looking like he regrets pretty much his entire life. When it comes to Pete and Joe’s shenanigans, he probably does. “If it wasn’t your birthday today, I’d kill you, probably.”

“But it _is!_ ” Pete chirps happily, clapping his hands together gleefully. “So you can’t. And this _also_ means I’m dragging you along to the club with me to have some fun for once.”

“I’m straight edge, Pete,” Andy reminds him with a sigh, a tired look in his eyes. “You remember that, right?”

Pete shrugs, making a face at him. “So you can’t dance and have a good time still? God, we gotta get you to lighten up, Hurley.”

“All right,” Andy reluctantly agrees, his shoulders relaxing just a bit as Pete and Joe let out eager _whoops_ of happiness. “But no breaking any more glass tables, got it?”

Joe just sighs, a pained look crossing his face at the memory. “One time. You fuck up one time, and everybody remembers it forever.”

 

-

 

Luckily enough for them, they (and by they, everyone knows they mean _Gabe_ ) manage to find a somewhat low-key club where people probably won’t know their faces, thank god. Pete just wants to get out of his own head and have a good time with the people he cares about for his birthday without having to worry about fans or paparazzi or...anything stressful that keeps him up at night, really.

Currently, he’s slumped on a couch with Andy, a couple of empty shot glasses lined up on the table in front of him. The two of them are watching Joe try to finesse a free drink out of a nice (but very busy) bartender, who clearly doesn’t have the time to deal with his shit — that is, until Bebe shows up, all dark eyes and fluttering eyelashes. Pete’s convinced that Bebe could convince the sun not to shine, or the rain to fall backwards, or...or...well, something that normally wouldn’t happen. He can’t exactly think very coherently right now, but he _does_ know that she’s one of the most charming people he’s ever met, and when she switches it on, it’s over for anyone who tries to stand in her way.

Sure enough, Joe and Bebe stumble away with full glasses, clinking them together clumsily, and Pete laughs inwardly. He really does love his friends.

“You having fun?” Andy asks, breaking him out of his thoughts.

His chest fills and holds, and the smile he sends back feels like the first real one he’s given in a long while. It's not a familiar feeling, but it's a good one, and it's one that he hopes he'll have the chance to get used to. “Yeah, I am, actually. This is a pretty sweet birthday party, if I'm being honest.”

“Good,” Andy says, a soft smile on his face giving away how much he actually doesn’t mind being here. He might put up a tough front, but Pete knows that on the inside, he's as soft as a teddy bear. He loves his friends, and they all know it. “You deserve it, man.”

“Aw, has Andy Hurley gone soft?” Pete teases, poking him in the side peskily. Before Andy can retaliate, however, Joe plops himself down in the middle of them, laughing at himself as he does. He sort of ends up half in Andy’s lap, earning a surprised yelp from the redhead, before settling one leg across Pete’s thighs, his eyes warm and half-lidded. From the way he’s acting, you’d almost think it was _his_ birthday; this is why Pete has always loved Drunk Joe. Drunk Joe has absolutely no inhibitions, and occasionally he even breaks things. If he's not the funniest guy Pete's ever met while sober, he  _definitely_ lives up to that title when he's had too much to drink.

“Happy birthday, Pete!” Joe exclaims, a twinkle in his eye, the champagne in his hand sloshing out of the glass and into Andy’s lap. Andy groans unhappily and squirms underneath him, but Joe doesn’t seem to notice, even as the alcohol soaks into his jeans. “What’s on the birthday boy’s to-do list? More shots? Getting numbers? Breaking hearts?”

“Dancing with my best friends, actually!” Pete shouts back, over the music and chatter of the crowd. “Come on, let’s go!”

He reaches over where Joe’s draped his legs over him, and downs the rest of his shot in one go. After managing to get off the couch, he grabs Joe with one hand, Bebe with the other, and pulls them out onto the dance floor under Andy’s watchful eye. The alcohol is finally beginning to hit his blood for real, and the club starts playing “End of Pretend” — that _his band’s_ fucking _song_ they’re playing, holy fuck — and everything he’s been thinking about lately begins to slip away; he keeps spinning around and singing loudly and laughing, laughing, _laughing_ until he completely forgets, just for the night.

Joe does not break another table, thankfully.

 

—

 

Pete’s flipping through the channels on the hotel TV, one arm behind his head and a smile on his face, and he hasn’t felt this good in a long time.

Patrick’s in the shower right now, washing off the remnants of tonight’s show. Pete would normally be annoyed that he hasn’t had a chance to clean himself up yet and that Patrick’s probably stealing all the hot water, but he’s still on a performing high. It was a really good show, and not even rooming with Patrick, of all people, can bring him down tonight. He feels like he’s on top of the world for once.

His phone buzzes with unread messages, and he eyes it curiously, wondering who would be talking to him this late at night. Grabbing it off the nightstand, he unlocks it and goes to his messages without thinking about it, ready to investigate.

 

  * __pete? u up?__


  * _i’m in town tonight. been keeping tabs on the tour, lol_


  * _u should come over._



 

Holy shit. Holy fucking _shit_. Ashlee motherfucking Simpson, the girl he’s been flirting with for months but never thought he’d actually have a chance with, is in town and _wants to see him._ This is, like, more luck than he’s ever had. He feels like there should be a catch or something, but maybe the universe is just being nice to him, for once. Usually it hates him but...if it’s giving him this chance, it’s not like he’s going to say no.

“Patrick?” He says, knocking on the bathroom door. He can hear the shower running, the other man’s soft singing echoing through the room. “Hey, dude, I’m leaving for the night, so you’ve got the room to yourself.”

“Booty call?” comes the reply, and Pete can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Have fun, Wentz. I’m sure it’ll be a great time.”

_What is that even supposed to mean?_ Pete thinks, furrowing his eyebrows. Patrick is so fucking cryptic sometimes. God, it’s annoying. He goes to text Ashlee back, grabbing his jacket from where it’s draped over his bed.

 

  * __sure thing__


  * _send me the address and i’ll b over ASAP_



 

And really, it’s not like he wants to share a room with Patrick tonight, anyway — this is the perfect out.

Thirty minutes later, they’re holed up in Ashlee’s hotel room, some five-star place across town whose fancy name Pete can’t be bothered to remember. He’d just left the room with a brief, nondescript explanation, but he assumes Patrick got the message anyways, which is more than fine with him. He hadn’t thought about the night at the bar the entire cab ride to the hotel, and now he’s got something good — something _better_ — to keep him from thinking about it.

And what does he have, exactly? Well, he’s got one hand pressed between her thighs, his mouth on her neck, biting down just enough to make her shiver — which, hey, should make him feel pretty good. He’s still got it. He’s one of those people who _loves_ getting feedback during sex; he could probably actually get off on that alone. He _should_ get off on that alone, seeing as he’s doing pretty damn good here, judging by the way her hand is knotted into his hair and the tiny whimpers falling from her lips.

But, of course, the universe hates him, and it’s a bit more complicated than that.

Pete tries to focus on her moans, the soft sounds she makes as he does everything right, but it's just...not _working._ This is a girl he’s fantasized about for what feels like forever, someone he’s been chasing ever since he was able to get her number — he _should_ be having the best fucking orgasm of his life right now.

There’s just one little problem with that, at the moment: he's not hard. He can't get hard. He's so far from turned on right now that he's thinking about tomorrow night's setlist. The _setlist_ , of all things. He’s tried everything, but literally nothing will work for him right now. He just has to fake it long enough to get her off, and then he’ll be in the clear. Right? Right.

Unfortunately, he can't keep pretending for much longer, and she's starting to get suspicious as his gaze goes distant.

“What are you thinking about?” Ashlee asks, peering up at him with dark, curious eyes.

“Oh, nothing,” Pete says quickly, giving her a shaky smile in hopes of keeping his cover. _Come on Pete, you’ve done this a million times. Just say something to throw her off._ “Just thinking about all the ways I could make you come.”

“You’re not half bad at this dirty talk thing.” She grins up at him, her teeth flashing bright amongst the darkness of everything, startling in comparison. At that moment, she reaches down, ready to wrap her hand around his cock, and he immediately jerks backward so quickly that it makes her jump. Unease settles in his chest, and it’s at this moment that he realizes he’s going to fuck this entire thing up.

“I-I’m sorry,” Pete stutters, shying away from her touch. He pulls back, and is immediately met with an inquisitive stare. “I can’t do this. I mean. Uh. Just. Not right now.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, suddenly inquisitive. “What did I do?”

He backpedals quickly, stuttering nervously. “I, uh, no! You didn’t do anything! I’m just. I. I have to leave, like, now.”

Her eyes drift down to his crotch, widening when she figures it out. Well, now he’s fucked for sure. She knows — he knows she sees deeper into this than he wants her to.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she scoffs, pulling away from him coldly. “So you're just going to leave me here like this? What kind of fucked up asshole does that?”

_This one_ , Pete answers in his head, scrambling to get off the bed as fast as he can. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

She throws his clothes at him, and the zipper on his jeans nails him right in the cheek. “Fine. Take your shit and go. You were just a waste of my time anyway. I should have never kept your number.”

Pete’s heart sinks, and he swallows hard. He never meant for the night to go this way. “I’m sorry, Ash, I really am.”

“Don’t call me that,” she warns, gaze piercing even in the dim light. “Get out, Pete. Leave me alone. And don’t fucking call me.”

 

-

 

Pete quietly slips his key card into the slot, praying that Patrick is already asleep. He really doesn't have the mental energy to be witty right now, especially since he has to share a room with the person that frustrates him the most — in more ways than one.

Of course, though, he never has any luck, and Patrick is still awake, lazily sprawled out across his bed and watching TV. As soon as Pete enters the room, though, he grabs the remote and turns it off, giving Pete his full attention. Pete swallows hard, because he knows that whatever is about to come next probably can’t be good.

“How was your date with Ashlee?” Patrick asks, raising an eyebrow at him suggestively. “You look pretty rough, buddy.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Pete mutters, shedding his jacket and throwing it into the corner of their room where the rest of his things are piled up.

Patrick presses the subject, though, sitting up to see him more clearly. “Oh, come on. When have you _not_ wanted to tell me how much better than me you are at everything?”

“I said _I don’t want to talk about it._ ” Patrick’s eyes light up in realization then, and Pete knows he’s screwed.

“Fuck, you didn't hook up with her, did you?” Patrick actually laughs out loud, falling back on his bed. “You actually couldn't get it up. And after all that bragging that you were fucking an honest-to-god _celebrity._ ”

“Stump, I swear to god, shut your fucking mouth,” Pete mutters, burying his face in his hands to try and cover the flush in his cheeks. He already wants to hide in the bathroom forever; it doesn't help that the one night he fucks up, he has to be sharing a room with Patrick, of all people.

“Or maybe…” Patrick says, sitting up slowly, voice trailing off as a smirk crosses his face. Pete already doesn't like where this is going. “Maybe you don't like girls.”

“Patrick,” Pete warns, his voice taking a hard edge to it. That's fucking _ridiculous_ , of course he likes girls. He's had more girlfriends than he cares to count. “Don't.”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Patrick presses on anyway, slipping off the bed, still with that smug expression plastered on his face. “Maybe you like _boys_.”

Pete crosses his arms. “Yeah, that's not really news. Your point is...?”

So what, he likes girls and boys? He’s always been bi. Everyone knows that. It's not a big deal. It's never mattered before. Why should it matter now?

Pete's not sure Patrick’s ever been this close to him without the context of one or both of them getting beaten up, so this is already weirder than it should be. He's too close for comfort, and his movements are too deliberate, and why are his lips so pink? That's not normal. That's not a normal human thing. And why is Pete so fixated on them?

“What kind of boys do you like?” Patrick asks all of a sudden, voice breathy and low, and Pete kind of forgets how to talk. That's...no. _No._ This should _not_ be getting him hard.

“I...what the fuck?” Pete stutters out, trying to think about anything other than how fucking turned on he is right now.

“I said,” Patrick repeats, tongue darting over his plush bottom lip, and Pete swallows hard. “What kind of boys do you like, Pete?”

And then Patrick's right there, with one hand on his chest and the other hovering over his hip, and that's precisely when everything goes to shit. He’s hit with the flashback of Patrick’s hand in his shirt and lips against his, and it takes everything in him to shove down the urge to push him up against the wall right then and there. “Not pretentious assholes, that's for sure.”

“Bullshit,” Patrick calls his bluff, pressing his palm down right over his heart, and Pete hates the entire world for betraying him like this as his heart rate kicks into overdrive. “You like boys, and you like me.”

“I do _not_ like you,” Pete says through gritted teeth, grabbing Patrick's wrist and tugging it away from his chest. “You're annoying and stubborn and you can't let anything go.”

“That's rich, coming from you,” Patrick retorts, pulling back, and for a split second, Pete thinks he's in the clear. Then, before he has a chance to react, Patrick's got him backed up against the wall, hands on either side of his head. “You're a terrible liar, Pete.”

“I — I hate you,” Pete stutters, trying to steel his expression as much as possible.

“Then why did you get so weirdly protective of me in the bar?” Patrick presses, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. “If you really hate me that much, you could have just left me there. And I know that I’m not exactly your favorite person, but after that night, you won't even _talk_ to me. Tell me what I’m supposed to make of that.”

Pete sighs, his eyes falling closed. There's no way out of this or around it, so _fuck it_ , he's just gonna have to dive right in. “Fine, I find you attractive. I do. I don’t regret standing up for you, and I don't regret that you kissed me. Okay? Do you have to be a dick about it?”

Patrick sucks in a breath, eyes going wide, and something in Pete's chest flips as the blonde’s hands come down to latch tightly onto his arms. “I...shit, I didn't think you'd actually admit to that.”

“Well, I did, okay?!” Pete snaps, trying to pull himself away and failing, Patrick's hands gripping him like a lifeline. “You _know_ you’re good-looking. You don’t have to hold it over my head, you douchebag. Can we just be done here?”

“No,” Patrick says, grabbing Pete's jaw and turning his head, forcing him to look at him. “Because I am, stupidly enough, very attracted to you, too.”

Pete’s eyes snap open at that, because _what?_ When did this development occur? And how? And why? “You what?”

“You heard me. Why the fuck do you think I kissed you?” Patrick asks, nearly breathless at this point. His cheeks are stained red, and Pete can tell that underneath his false bravado, he's scared as hell — and yet there's a sense of purpose underneath his words that strikes Pete harder than he expected. Suddenly, it feels like everything they've been dancing around is right there in front of them, narrowed down to this moment in time. “You know we have chemistry. You want this, I want this. Why...why don’t we do something about that?”

“Because it's a terrible idea,” Pete argues, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to convince himself that neglecting this opportunity is for the best. “We can't stand each other for more than five minutes. How do you plan on working around that?”

“It's not like we actually have to be in a relationship or anything,” Patrick points out. “We don't even have to act different than we normally do. But you and I both know there's something here. We can ignore it and be sexually frustrated for the rest of this damn tour...or we can, uh, attend to the matter at hand.”

Patrick presses his hips forward, and Pete can feel that he's just as hard, which nearly knocks the breath right out of him. All coherent thinking immediately disappears because, if he's being honest, he's always been a bit notorious for thinking with his dick instead of his brain.

“I...guess it wouldn't actually hurt anything,” Pete admits sheepishly, ducking his head. “You might have a point there.”

“So kiss me,” Patrick breathes, the red staining his cheeks darkening tenfold. His pupils are blown wide under the sweep of his long eyelashes, and Pete _wants._ He longs so much, so intensely, in a way that he never would have admitted to himself had Patrick not suggested it in the first place. The tension between them is charged with electricity, sparks flying at every point they touch, and Pete throws the last of his inhibitions out the window. “What have you got to lose?”

So Pete does kiss him. He does, and the entire world falls away right under his feet.

They stumble away from the wall, falling ungracefully back onto Pete’s bed, never once pulling away except to come up for air. His tongue swipes against Patrick’s bottom lip — the lips Pete’s been fixated on for weeks on end, _holy shit_ — and Patrick deepens the kiss willingly, _eagerly_ , sighing so intensely that it makes him shudder. Pete grabs his hips, soft, pleasured noises slipping out of his mouth, and Patrick leans back all of the sudden, a desperate look in his eyes. He grabs the end of Pete’s shirt and pulls it over his head, and as the cold air rushes against his skin, Pete's suddenly got a world of doubt sinking into his brain.

His thoughts are quickly silenced, though, when Patrick straddles his waist and sinks down into his lap, grinding against him with a rhythm that tears a moan right out of him. Pete reaches up and tangles one hand in that fair hair, gasping when Patrick leans down, breath hot against against his neck, and bites a mark into the place where it meets his shoulder.

“Fuck, Patrick,” Pete mutters, feeling dizzy and dazed beyond belief. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

“Like that?” Patrick breathes out, and _fuck, yes,_ he _really_ likes that and he should definitely do it again. “You want me to mark you up?”

_“Yeah,_ _”_ Pete gasps, pulling at the short, soft strands of hair at the back of Patrick's neck. Patrick gladly obliges, pushing him back down onto the bed and pressing soft kisses to the exposed skin before getting to work.

He works his way down, spanning the length of Pete's chest to his torso, and Pete's left praying that he doesn't have a photoshoot any time soon. There’s no possible way he’d be able to hide this, even with all the makeup in the world. Patrick stops to drag his tongue over the pelvic tattoo teasingly, and Pete has to bite down on a knuckle to stifle a whimper — however, it’s useless, because the sound that tears from his throat is the most needy thing he’s ever heard in his life. It's embarrassing, how fast he's unraveling under his touch, but he can't help it — that mouth is definitely multi-talented.

He's biting his lip to hold back a moan, fisting one hand into the sheets as Patrick sucks a mark into his hipbone, when everything suddenly ceases. He starts to sit up, wondering what's going on, but then Patrick sits up again, one hand on Pete’s chest to keep him down. If he wasn't so turned on right now, he'd be infinitely frustrated, but it's honestly taking all of his willpower not to come in his pants like a fucking teenager.

“Okay. Weird question, but...” Patrick trails off, flushed and breathless, and Pete feels all the air leave his lungs at once. “Can I fuck you?”

It's been so long since he's actually been fucked, but that's just another reason in the seemingly endless list of why he should say ‘yes.’ He's got the prettiest guy he's ever seen straddling his hips, a hotel room all to themselves, and he won't lie to himself about how much he's craving this right now. If Patrick wants this as much as he does, he's giving it the green light for sure.

“Go for it,” Pete finally says, watching as Patrick blinks in surprise, like he wasn’t expecting him to say yes. The moment quickly passes, though, and Patrick's eyes go dark with lust. Pete smirks, watching just how much his words have an effect on the blonde. “Show off, pretty boy. Show me how good you are.”

“I promise, you can fuck me into next Tuesday next time,” Patrick babbles on, trailing off into a whine when Pete rolls his hips up in search of friction. “But you're so gorgeous like this, I hate it. And by hate it, I mean I hate how much I'm actually into it, you asshole.”

“Less talking,” Pete says, shoving two fingers into his mouth. “We can discuss how much you hate my gorgeous guts later.”

Patrick sucks lightly on his fingers, smirking around them as Pete's hips jerk up involuntarily, before pulling away.

“Condoms? Lube?” Patrick asks, tugging his own shirt over his head and tossing it to the side. “You gotta tell me where it is, darling.”

“Bag,” Pete pants as he kicks his jeans off, gesturing wildly at the other end of the room. “It's in my bag, first zipper, inside pocket.”

It's barely two minutes before he's being pressed into the bed again, moans of pleasure falling from his lips. Patrick goes slow, delicately slipping two fingers inside of him while picking up a rhythm that reminds Pete of why he really loves drummers. He presses soft kisses down Pete’s neck and chest, stopping occasionally to bite down on the inked skin. It's oddly gentle compared to everything else they've done, but maybe that's part of what makes it so good. Patrick isn't just taking his share and getting it over with — he's actually taking the time to ensure that Pete feels like he's being treated right, which is more than Pete can say for around half the people he's hooked up with in the past.

“More?” Patrick asks, and Pete nods, tangling his fingers in his hair to pull him back up to his lips. His other hand is trembling in the space between Patrick's shoulder blades, nails digging in and leaving angry scratches every time he feels him hit the prostate. It's too slow of a pace, too antagonizing — he needs more. A whimper falls from his mouth and he squirms impatiently, trying anything possible to reach the pleasure he craves.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Pete whispers, feeling like he absolutely can't take any more of this. “Please, want you, now.”

“You sure?” Pete nods, blinking up at him impatiently. Patrick leans down and captures his lips again, sucking lightly on his bottom lip to coax out a moan before letting him go. “All right, baby, can you flip over for me?”

Pete doesn't even object to being called _baby_ because suddenly he's got Patrick's hands all over him, burning hot and heavy against his skin. He does as he's asked and flips, taking deep breaths to steady himself. As he buries his face in a pillow and fists his hands into the sheets, he tries to convince himself not to be too loud when this actually happens. They're in a hotel, after all, with all bandmates and crew staying on the same floor as them. Being too vocal might not exactly be the best decision.

Of course, that doesn't go as planned, because as soon as Patrick pushes in, he's a whimpering, moaning mess. It's so good, too much and not enough and perfect all at the same time. _Fuck_ being quiet — he doesn’t think anything could stop the whine falling involuntarily from his lips. Fireworks are going off behind his eyelids, exploding hot and bright all throughout his veins. He wants…he wants…

_“Patrick_ _,”_ he breathes out, the end of it trailing into a whimper. “Please. Please, please, _please."_

“You good?” Patrick pants, digging his nails into Pete's hips. He turns his head out of the pillows to nod, pressing back against him just to hear him gasp.

“I’m golden. _Keep going.”_

Patrick leans down, kisses the back of his neck in a way that makes him shiver. “All right, if you say so.”

Patrick seems to stop holding himself back then, soft moans and whimpers that somehow _still_ sound like music filling Pete’s ears. His thrusts are getting stronger, faster, deeper, and it’s driving him absolutely crazy — and now there's a hand on his cock, oh _shit_. Pete can’t remember the last time he’d had sex that was _so good_ , and part of him never wants it to end because he knows that nothing’s going to be able to live up to this. However, the other part of him that’s going into sensory overload is giving him no choice. He's so _close_ — they both are, he can feel it, and he turns his head to look at Patrick, cheeks burning. He bites his lip, watching the way Patrick’s mouth drops open and his breath hitches, and pushes his hips back against him one last time.

“Yes, oh _fuck_ , gonna —!” And Pete feels him come undone, legs shaking, trembling as he slumps against his back. It's enough to send him over the edge too, and they fall into the sheets together as a sticky, sweaty mess. He turns to face Patrick, and suddenly there's a pair of lips sliding against his, tongue swirling into his mouth lazily. He's barely even got his breath back, but there's no way he's gonna turn this down. He pulls Patrick up against him, kissing him slowly, like they've got all the time in the world.

“Oh my god,” Patrick breathes out when they finally part, eyes wide and impressed. “That was…”

“Yeah,” Pete agrees, running a hand through his hair, which he's sure is a fucking mess by now. “Me too.”

Neither of them speaks after that, taking a break to catch their breath and process what just happened, but it's not as awkward as Pete was expecting it would be. He closes his eyes, trying to concentrate on his own breathing. The only thing he feels is _warm warm warm_ , blossoming in his chest and extending down his limbs in a slow, graceful crawl.

Finally, after a long period of silence, Patrick stands up to get his clothes and dispose of the condom, pulling the filthy blanket with him as he goes. Pete shivers as the cold rush of air hits his skin and goes to pull on his underwear, at least, before deciding he should probably opt for sweatpants as well. He looks up, still captivated by the pink marks lining Patrick's back, a stark contrast against his pale skin. It's an image that he knows will be burned into his mind permanently.

He lays in his bed silently for a while after that, shivering without the top blanket, unable to shut down the brewing storm in his brain. What has he just done? Has he unleashed a monster? How are he and Patrick supposed to look at each other in the morning? What if someone finds out? What if —

“Pete?” Patrick asks quietly, voice softer than he's ever heard it. It makes his breath catch in his throat. “Can't sleep?”

Pete clears his throat, rolling over to see him. He's covered in uneven patches of dim light seeping in through the window, unnervingly beautiful even in just a t-shirt and sweatpants. “No, not really. Anxiety, you know. It's a bitch.” Patrick frowns for a second, and Pete can see the wheels turning in his head. Eventually, he blinks several times, apparently coming to the answer he was looking for, and then that blue gaze is focused on Pete.

“Come here,” Patrick says from the other bed, holding his arms out in invitation. It's unprecedented, uncharted territory, but then again, so is everything else. It takes all of two seconds for Pete to make up his mind, and then he's across the gap between their beds, settling himself against Patrick's chest. He's solid, an anchor; safe.

“Thanks,” he says softly, burrowing deeper under the blankets. “Sorry if I'm invading your space or anything.”

“Don't worry about it.” Patrick yawns, taking the time to drape an arm over Pete's torso as he stretches. “I'm a cuddler. You should probably be warned about that now.”

“Note taken.” Not that Pete really minds that — if anything, he’d be complaining if there _wasn’t_ the physical contact he craves so dearly. Now that he’s allowed himself to have what he wants, he’s going to soak up all he can get.

It's almost weird, being so calm around each other, but Pete will take it for all it's worth. His fingertips lightly skim the curve of Patrick's jaw, and the feeling of smooth skin against his rough palm becomes a fixation as sleep comes to claim him. Patrick leans over and kisses him softly; once, twice, three times, and Pete sighs contently, the nervous energy beginning to drain out of his body. He's glad he's not sleeping alone right now — his brain would never shut off if he was.

Patrick smooths back the sweaty hair from his forehead, handling Pete more gingerly now than he ever has before. It makes Pete's stomach twist just the slightest, but he leans into the touch and tries to ignore that as much as possible. He's dead tired. He doesn't have time to overthink everything now. Overthinking is reserved for the morning after.

“ _Sleep_ ,” Patrick whispers, still running his fingers through Pete's hair, and he does.

 

—

 

“Hey,” Patrick breathes, his hair messily fanning around his head like a dirty golden halo. “So the dead man finally wakes.”

Pete stretches, feeling his muscles ache all over from the night before, but also a strange warm sensation in his chest. Patrick's legs are still tangled with his, and something in his stomach drops at the realization. The weird part, though, is that he’s not regretting this at all right now. In fact, he’s not exactly sure what to say, and he kind of wants to burrow under the blankets for the next five hours and avoid any confrontation at all. Maybe last night he was sure of himself, but right now he's doubting _everything._

“I’m guessing you don't want to talk about it?” Patrick supplies, catching his drift, and _yes, thank god, god bless Patrick Stump_ because that's exactly what he was heading toward.

“I...don’t know,” Pete finally mumbles, feeling his cheeks heat up. On one hand, they could chalk last night up as a spur-of-the-moment one night stand, and go back to normal, which would probably be the smarter option. But on the other hand... _hot damn._ He doesn't want to admit it, but there's a reason the girls all scream for Patrick. And the boys. And whoever else. _Shit._ “I don't want this to change anything, but at the same time —”

“— you don't want to change...what just happened,” Patrick finishes for him, and he nods quietly.

Patrick closes his eyes, and Pete’s heart leaps into his throat as he watches the blonde turn over the options in his head. If he could just keep whatever they have now trapped in amber, he wouldn't mind it. No pressure, no strings attached, but the lingering promise that there would always be a _yes_ in store for next time.

Oh fuck, he forgot all about the whole “next time” thing. _“I promise, you can fuck me into next Tuesday next time.” Holy fucking shit. That actually happened._

“Stop thinking so hard.” Patrick frowns, reaching out and flicking Pete in the middle of the forehead. “I can practically hear you. Stop worrying about this.”

Pete frowns, shaking it off. “Sorry. What do you want?”

“I was going to say that...you know,” Patrick stops, half-smiling at him nervously. “This doesn’t have to change anything. We could just...roll with it.”

“Roll with it?” Pete repeats, feeling the flicker of hope in his chest spark earnestly.

Patrick nods, keeping their gazes locked. “Yeah. We could just...let it be what it is, you know?

“Yeah,” Pete says quietly, nodding right back. “Yeah, that sounds...good? To me, at least — I mean, if you’re down for it, that is.”

“I did suggest it, didn’t I?”

  
Pete sort of hates that Patrick’s biting sarcasm kinda excites him as much as it annoys him.

“So if we were to...encounter this situation again,” Pete says carefully, taking it as a good sign when Patrick doesn't react. “What would you say?”

“I’d say you're on, Wentz,” Patrick replies, a half-smirk appearing on his face. “Who the fuck is gonna say no to getting laid by a hot bassist?”

“You think I’m hot?”

“Like you don't find me attractive,” Patrick retorts, and Pete swallows hard because, okay, yeah. Deep down, he knows he always has, he just never let himself admit it. “We’ve already had this conversation. Even when you call me _pretty boy_ to insult me, you're still admitting that you find me pretty.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Pete scoffs, kicking the blankets off. “I call first shower.”

“We leave for soundcheck in an hour,” Patrick reminds him, sitting up and stretching. “So don’t take too long. And save some hot water for me.”

And...it’s as easy as that.

 

—

 

It's another few days before they get another hotel night, but Pete and Patrick have kind of fallen into a rhythm of venue bathrooms and locked dressing rooms. To everyone else, they just seem like they've finally decided to put their stubbornness aside, but when they're on their own? That's a completely different world.

So, naturally, Pete is thrilled when they pull into the hotel parking lot somewhere in Ohio, because it means they'll actually have an entire bed to themselves. He does appreciate the effort they've got going right now, but a hotel room is monumentally less cramped and offers so many possibilities.

“I call Patrick!” He exclaims as they stumble tiredly out of buses and vans, meeting an inquisitive staredown from both Bebe and Andy.

“So you two are finally getting along?” Bebe asks hopefully, raising an eyebrow.

Pete fakes a laugh, hoping he doesn't blow his own cover. “You have no idea.”

Andy gives him a once-over, sizing him up, before finally just shrugging and turning to follow Joe. “As long as you don’t kill each other, we’re good!” He calls over his shoulder, giving Pete a tired thumbs-up.

Pete grins. They really don’t have a clue.

As they make their way to the hotel room, it takes everything Pete has to keep his hands off of Patrick in the lobby, in the elevator, in the hallway. He feels like he’s about ready to jump out of his skin, buzzing with so much pent-up energy that he’s about to explode. Unfortunately, everyone else is still milling about in the hallway, making small talk and quiet conversation before going to bed — seriously, Nate, _go to bed already_. It’s driving him a little bit crazy, but he shoves his hands into his pockets and does his best to be patient.

As soon as everyone is in their respective rooms, though, Pete backs Patrick up against their door, holding the key card high over his head. The way the blonde’s cheeks immediately go red is not lost on him, and he smirks down at him. He's going to have a _lot_ of fun teasing Patrick for the rest of this tour. “You remember when you promised me I could, and I quote, ‘fuck you into next Tuesday’ the next time I got you alone?”

Patrick swallows hard, the red tint from his cheeks slowly spreading to the rest of his face. “Yeah, of course I do.”

Pete leans in close enough to feel Patrick's breath stutter against his lips, barely inches apart. “You planning on keeping that promise?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Patrick hisses, reaching out to ball his fist tightly into Pete’s hoodie. “But we have to be _inside_ for that, dipshit. In case you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of the hallway. Any second, now, someone could walk out and see us.”

“Mmm, I don't know,” Pete teases, enjoying just how frustrated the blonde is getting. “I'm not sure if I want to go inside just yet.”

Patrick yanks him forward all of the sudden, kissing him so hard and vicious that he tastes blood. He feels his legs part and Patrick slot his leg in-between the two, pressing up enough to make him gasp. He ruts down onto his thigh ever so slightly, moving to tangle his hands into Patrick's hair —

— and that's where he makes his mistake.

Patrick plucks the key card from his fingers, smirking into the kiss. Somehow, he manages to open the door from behind, and the two of them stumble into the room together, a mess of eagerness and lust radiating from them. Pete loses his hoodie somewhere near the door, Patrick’s tie draped across a nightstand, until they’re just a frenzy of clothes being discarded and touch-starved kisses.

“You have no idea how thrilled I am that it’s a hotel night,” Patrick whispers against his ear, low and sultry. He leans down to mouth slowly, deliberately at Pete’s neck, teeth scraping the fragile skin, and Pete gasps, a feeling like electricity shooting straight down his spine. It’s bad enough to have hickeys when they’re peeking out from the collar of his shirt, but one in plain sight? Bebe and the boys will be giving him shit for _weeks_ — and yet, he can’t tell Patrick no. He _doesn’t want_ to tell Patrick no. He loves this even more than he hates the consequences.

“Eager, much?” He teases, breath hitching as Patrick rolls his hips against his in search of friction.

Patrick rolls his eyes, but smiles back at him. “Whatever, like you’re one to talk. You’re the one who couldn’t wait to get inside, remember? I think I distinctly remember _your_ impatient-ass self rubbing off against me in the middle of the hallway just ten minutes ago — but, you know, correct me if I’m wrong.”

_Okay, so maybe he has a point, there._ He leans in and bites Patrick’s bottom lip in response, eliciting a beautiful moan from the singer. Pete smirks at that, tugging at the hem of Patrick’s shirt. “Come on, let’s get this off.”

Patrick laughs at him through the kiss, and leans back enough to catch his desperate gaze. “Buttons, babe. I can’t just pull it off over my head this time.”

“Then let me help you,” Pete says, trying not to show that Patrick calling him ‘babe’ has left him slightly shaken. It’s...whatever, it’s the heat of the moment, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s just a good fuck and that’s _all_ , Pete tells himself, reconnecting their lips as his hands go to work undoing the buttons of Patrick’s shirt.

He finds himself thanking whatever god there is that Patrick’s stage outfit consists of trousers instead of skinny jeans, because he slips out of them without much of a fight. Patrick falls back onto the bed, cheeks pink and pupils blown wide, beautiful and breathless, and Pete is left thinking about just how he’s going to go about this. He could follow the same routine they had before, just reversed, or start off with something completely different, or...or...

...and he's distracted now. He's got so many ideas that just flew out the window because Patrick’s thighs are _right there_ , soft to the touch and paper white. Every fiber of his being is itching for him to put his face between those thighs, to kiss and lick and _bite_ until he's a patchwork quilt of marks. He wants to hear Patrick fall apart under his touch, to make him squirm and cry out so loudly he'll have to worry that everyone can hear them. Pete wants to make him so much of a mess that he forgets his fucking name _._

Well. That's certainly a change of plans.

“On your back,” Pete says, pulling his shirt over his head.

“Lube’s in my bag,” Patrick supplies, kicking off his underwear. “Or do you have your own stuff? Either way.”

Pete shakes his head. “New plan,” he says, sinking to his knees. Patrick’s eyes go wide above him, and he grins. He _loves_ holding the element of surprise. “That won't be needed — at least, not yet.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow in confusion. “What are you —?”

Pete comes back up for a moment, long enough to pull him into a kiss that has _filthy_ written all over it. Patrick blinks in surprise for a second before melting into it, kissing back like he can’t get enough. Pete just slowly slides his hands down his body, feeling the heat of the blush under his palms. He runs his hands along the insides of Patrick’s thighs, feels the way he shivers underneath his touch. It’s intoxicating. “You got to leave your mark on me. Now it's my turn.”

Without another word, he presses his palm against Patrick's chest and gently pushes him onto his back, feeling the intense thump of his heart against his fingertips. It's like a drug, the way both of their pulses are racing — a strange source of adrenaline that Pete can't get enough of. He’s an addict by now, for sure.

Pete starts near the inside of his knee, nipping at the sensitive skin there, though not hard enough to leave a mark. Patrick grits his teeth in response, breath coming out as a hiss. Pete smirks against his skin, kissing it delicately enough to tease. He'd never really noticed how long Patrick’s legs were compared to the rest of him, but that's okay. It just gives him more room to work.

He licks slowly, deliberately, up the length of Patrick’s thigh, stopping to suck a mark into the soft, vulnerable skin there. A loud whine escapes the blonde, and he slaps a hand over his mouth, ashamed. Pete shakes his head, kissing the spot over and over again.

“No, come on,” he murmurs against the warm skin, pushing Patrick’s legs up so that they're resting over his shoulders. “Want to hear you. Let me hear those pretty noises you make, babe. Wanna hear everything you're feeling.”

A low groan flows out of him like a river of sound, swirling into Pete’s ears and forcing his head underwater. He peppers soft kisses up the rest of his thigh, stopping once he gets all the way up to Patrick’s hipbones. He licks at them eagerly, sucking angry, dark marks into them like it's his job — he doesn't even notice the quiet, breathy moans falling from his own lips until Patrick's voice joins him.

“Pete,” Patrick warns, his voice strained. “If you don’t stop fucking around and put your mouth on my dick, I am going to knee you in the throat.”

“Oh, are you sure about that? Because I think you’re kind of enjoying this.” Pete grins, his plan to get Patrick coming undone working perfectly. He slowly drags his tongue along his length, smirking as Patrick bites down on one knuckle to keep himself from crying out. He comes back to flick his tongue over the head tauntingly, digging his nails into the soft skin at the backs of his legs.

“Pete, please,” Patrick begs, the end trailing into a whimper. “Oh god, please, just _come on_.”

“Well, if you insist,” Pete teases, satisfied with the desperation in his voice, finally giving in and just going down on him.

Patrick's head falls back against the mattress, and the moan that falls from his mouth shoots straight to Pete’s dick. One arm is thrown over his eyes, trying to conceal the intense blush across his cheeks, and the other is fisted so tightly into the sheets his knuckles are turning white.

“You’re doing...so good,” Patrick pants out, eyelashes fluttering as he tries to keep them open, chest heaving. “You’re so good, baby. _So_ good.”

Something about that ignites the heat in the pit of Pete’s stomach, because as much as he hates to admit it, there’s not a lot he wouldn’t do for Patrick to keep praising him like that. _Good?_ Well, he's about to make this fucking _great._

One hand finds its way into Pete’s hair as he picks up a faster, messier rhythm, his breaths taking on a slight whine to them every time he exhales. He pushes his hips forward, _begging_ for more, and Pete just presses his fingers so hard into his hipbones he's sure he'll leave bruises. Patrick's mouth opens and he chokes out something that sounds like Pete’s name, legs trembling. Pete just makes a mental note to do this more often and slides a slick finger into him, knowing that he's got Patrick practically melting underneath his touch now.

The strangled cry that tears from Patrick’s throat is just as melodic as any note Pete's ever heard him sing. His fingers curl tightly into Pete's hair, and Pete can feel the energy thrumming through his body as he moans. His back arches as Pete adds his hand to the mix, breath hitching and stuttering over and over again, and Pete knows he's pretty much done for.

“Pete, oh my _god_ , oh shit, I’m —!” He tries to warn Pete, to pull him away, but Pete just dives back down and swallows like a champ, come burning hot against the back of his throat. The broken whimper that Patrick gives him in response is more than worth it. He pulls off softly while they're both trying to catch their breath, dick achingly hard and rubbing against the inseam of his jeans. He drags his tongue over his bottom lip, red and spit-slick, before wiping his mouth and staring up at Patrick with dark eyes. The blonde is speechless, cheeks tinged red and eyes half-lidded in a way that convinces Pete he should _definitely_ do this again. If that's not the hottest thing he's ever seen...

“You're not the only one with a talented mouth, pretty boy,” Pete breathes out, getting up from his knees and looking at him with an expression of pure want.

“Pete,” Patrick murmurs, propping himself up onto his elbows to see him. “Pete, come here, get up here.”

Patrick grabs him by digging his nails into Pete’s shoulders, and tugs him up onto the bed. Pete braces himself on his forearms, lightly hovering above Patrick as the blonde kisses him with all the breath he has left. Patrick reaches down, shoving one hand needily into the waistband of his jeans, and palms his cock so slowly and deliberately that Pete’s breath catches. If Patrick keeps doing that, he's not going to last much longer.

“ _Patrick_ ,” Pete groans, the sound rumbling low and deep in his throat. “Oh my _god._ ”

“ _Shh_ ,” Patrick responds, before curling one hand around Pete’s jaw and going back to kissing him — greedily, like he’s never going to get this chance again. He sucks on Pete’s bottom lip, skimming his thumb over the head of his dick, presses on until he knows he’s got Pete falling apart in his arms.

“Trick,” Pete breathes, nearly shaking with how goddamn close he is. “ _Please._ ”

“Okay, _now_ fuck me,” Patrick pants against his lips, looking him dead in the eyes. His expression is more serious than Pete has ever seen him before, and it's electrifying. “Come on, it's your turn. You've earned it _._ ”

Pete obliges eagerly.

After that, it's pretty easy to fall into a routine. They've gotten pretty good at avoiding each other when at all possible, and acting cordial when they're forced to be around each other. As of right now, Pete’s pretty sure they won’t be caught. At least 90% sure — which are a lot better odds than he’s faced before.

Still, there’s that annoying 10% that goes by the name “the nosy nature of Joseph Trohman,” and Pete can’t help but feel like Joe knows something _._ He knows that Pete’s been hooking up with _someone_ ; Pete’s just lucky that Joe doesn’t care enough to ask _who_ it is. His incessant teasing about the...uh, _remnants_ of his little endeavors with Patrick set him on edge enough. It’s not his fault if he gets defensive about it. The others would never let him hear the end of it if they found out what was really going on.

And when Joe spots the hickey on his neck, a smug look on his face — “ooh, who found himself a friend last night?” — Pete can't help but blush when he brushes him off.

“Don't worry about it.”

 

—

 

“ _Pete!_ ”

He jerks awake at the sound of his name, drenched in a cold sweat and shivering violently. Through the trembling, he blinks away the fear, trying to focus on the blurry figure in front of him instead. The tunnel vision begins to fade, and reality begins to come back to him — he’s in his bed, in the hotel room he’s sharing with Patrick for the night.

He doesn't exactly remember what the nightmare was about — something along the lines of himself and Joe running away from a twisted, demented version of Andy — but now he's got Patrick hovering above him, hands firm on both shoulders and a glimmer of worry in his eyes. When he realizes this, he starts at first, tensing under his grip and struggling to get himself away, and Patrick takes the chance to pull the both of them into a sitting position.

“You were screaming in your sleep,” Patrick explains, gripping his hands tightly. “Scared the shit out of me.”

Pete opens his mouth, but nothing is coming out — he’s gone somewhat mute for the moment, unable to force even a single word out. He _hates_ it when this happens, hates feeling so fucking  _helpless_. Noticing this, Patrick’s gaze softens, and he takes Pete’s face in his hands, cupping his cheeks gently. His cheeks are beginning to turn a soft pink, but he keeps a straight face plastered on as he scoots himself closer to Pete.

“ _Hey_ ,” he murmurs, expression unusually sweet for once, and all at once a weirdly calm sensation begins to fall over the both of them. “Look at me. Stay with me. Come on, let’s fix you up.”

Patrick gets to work and helps Pete through his post-dream confusion, wraps him in a blanket and sits him against the headboard — something solid and secure. He turns on the lamp, sending light flooding into the room, and the nightmarescape disappears back into the shadows, where it can’t hurt him for the time being. He's okay. He's safe.

He's starting to calm down now, but he still can't get his voice to work right, words coming out slurred and stuttered. “I don't — I’m not sure what — I think I —”

“ _Shh,_ ” Patrick soothes, brushing a hand gently along the side of his face. It's warm and comforting, and startlingly real through the still-fading dream haze. “It was just a nightmare, it's not real.”

Pete swallows around the dry lump in his throat and nods, heart thumping so hard it feels like it's going to bust straight through his ribcage. “I'm okay?” He tries to reassure Patrick, but it comes out sounding more like a question than he'd intended.

“You're okay,” Patrick confirms, brushing the damp hair off of his forehead. This feels way more intimate than either of them are comfortable with, but Pete really doesn't have time to process that — namely because Patrick's kissing him all of a sudden, slow and deep, and Pete just melts into him like this is the only thing in the world that matters. Everything is just _Patrick, Patrick, Patrick_ , and suddenly, he can’t focus on the dream anymore.

Pete draws back for a second to suck in a breath, suddenly feeling very, very awake. Patrick blinks down at him, opening and closing his mouth like he's trying to figure out what to say. However, the moment of hesitation is over as soon as it started, ending with Pete curling a hand into Patrick's shirt and dragging him back in. It's the first time they've _really_ kissed without the context of anything sexual, and he's not sure how to feel about that. His chest aches with want and hurt and sleep-deprivation all at once — it's too much.

“This is real,” he mumbles, almost involuntarily, feeling the way Patrick's breath hitches in his throat. “This...you're real? This is real?”

“It's real,” Patrick says, brushing the back of his hand gently against Pete's cheek to soothe him. “It's real. You're awake. I promise.”

Pete nods, biting his lip. His head is buzzing with a million thoughts, but he can't decipher any of them.

Patrick pulls back, giving him space to breathe, but the part of his brain where his anxiety lingers detests it. He misses the closeness. Patrick’s the closest thing he’s got to an anchor right now, and Pete’s not letting go. “You gonna freak out on me?”

Pete shakes his head, trying his best to pull himself together. “No, I think we’re past that. Sorry for that, by the way. Sometimes it takes me a while to break out of them, you know? They can get bad.”

“You've had them before?” Patrick asks, confusion set deeply in his features. “The nightmares, I mean.”

“I have them a lot,” Pete confesses. “I’ve had them for years. I don't know how to make them go away.”

“Well…” Patrick's voice trails off, and he perches himself gingerly on the edge of the bed, seeming hesitant now in a way that he hadn't just minutes before. “I'm sorry. That sucks. And as long as I’m around, I'll wake you up.”

“Thanks,” Pete whispers, because what else is he supposed to say? It already seems like too much that he owes Patrick for waking him up from this one, he doesn’t want to have to depend on him for ones in the future — and yet he can’t really bring himself to say no.

“You okay?” Pete nods, biting the inside of his cheek. He doesn't want to speak, but that's okay. Patrick understands enough for the both of them. “All right, good. If it's okay with you, I think I'm going to try to sleep again.”

“Wait,” Pete gasps as Patrick stands up, suddenly struck with a pang of anxiety that makes his lungs feel constricted, unable to breathe. “Patrick, please.”

And this _should_ be crossing every line they've drawn, because they both know the specifics — no strings attached. No feelings. But Pete can't help but notice that when Patrick's sleeping in the same bed as him, the nightmares don't seem to wake him. Maybe it's just the skin-on-skin comfort, maybe it's something else — either way, it's what gets him to grab Patrick's wrist as he's slipping out of bed and hold on.

“Stay,” Pete croaks out, watching as Patrick's eyes go wide. “Please stay. Just until I fall asleep, at least. I don't...I don't want them to come back.”

For a half-second, Pete's afraid that Patrick will say no, will tug his arm back and tell him to get over it. Luckily for him, the rejection doesn't come, and Patrick's crawling back into bed with him, slipping under the covers. “Scoot over. And save me some blanket. I get cold while I sleep.”

Pete’s heart soars, and he rolls over gratefully, giving Patrick all the space he needs. The bed dips under the added weight, and then Pete can feel the additional warmth radiating out from Patrick’s presence beside him. Patrick keeps more than enough space between them, sticking to his own side of the bed, and Pete doesn’t want to admit that he misses the way they’re usually intertwined after sex. He’s not gonna be the one to say it, though — that would be too far.

He listens as Patrick’s breathing begins to even out behind him, inwardly jealous that he’s falling asleep so easily. It’s been half an hour, but he’s still awake. His chest is still heaving. Patrick’s there now, but he just, he can’t figure out how to make himself sleep, he needs something to hold on to, he —

“Pete? Come here. You...you need to calm down.”

Patrick wraps an arm around him, pulling him backwards into his chest. Pete’s still not exactly sure how it works, since Patrick is technically shorter than him, but he ends up with Patrick’s face pressed against the back of his neck, nosing his shoulder sleepily. He lets out the shaky breath he’d been holding in, finally allowing his eyes to drift shut. He feels better — protected, even — in Patrick’s arms, sharing the small, safe haven of a shitty hotel bed in the middle of the night. Patrick lifts his hand, tracing patterns into Pete’s chest drowsily, and Pete’s stomach flips in response; he doesn’t quite know how to feel about this.

“Hey, dipshit,” Patrick quietly mumbles into his shoulder, intertwining their legs so they’re just _that much_ closer. It’s perfect. “Get some sleep, okay? Tell your anxiety to shut the fuck up. I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn't say anything, just nods, and relaxes himself into the way Patrick is pressed along his back.

 

—

 

Pete can’t sleep.

His muscles feel so wired they ache with it, like all of his nerves are on edge at the maximum level possible. If he gets any more tense, he’s certain he’s going to go into system overload and probably explode right there in his bunk.

And yet he’s _so fucking tired_ _,_ his body is heavy with it. He feels like he’s going to fall straight through the ground, forever and ever and ever until he burns up.

He remembers the last time he’d fallen asleep in Patrick’s arms — after his last nightmare, when Patrick had curled up against his back and lulled him into a dreamless sleep. It’s a long shot, but at this point, he’s really willing to try anything. He pulls out his phone, squinting at the sudden brightness, and scrolls until he finds Patrick’s name in his recent texts.

 

  * _i can’t sleep_


  * _i don’t want to bother you i just_


  * _i don’t know who else to go to_


  * _i’m sorry_



 

Pete puts his phone back down, rolling onto his back. _Well, that was dumb._ Patrick’s probably not even awake right now, because some people are actually functional enough to sleep properly. In fact, Patrick probably sleeps more than anyone Pete knows. Texting him was stupid, and he’s gonna wake up to see Pete’s pathetic messages, and they’ll be awkward and tense around each other all morning, and —

Pete’s phone buzzes and lights up with a reply, and he doesn’t think he’s ever entered his passcode so fast in his life.

 

  * __i’m sorry :^(__


  * _come here?_



 

Pete swallows his pride and pops his head out of his bunk, looking both ways before rolling out of bed. He crosses the aisle quietly, standing on his tiptoes to pull back Patrick’s curtain ever-so-slightly. Patrick jumps a bit, startled, but rolls onto his side to face him, anyway.

“Pete?” Patrick whispers, poking his head out of his bunk. “You okay?”

“Can I...?” Pete asks awkwardly, his leg bouncing anxiously. “I only want to sleep. I just. I _can’t_ —”

“— _yeah_ ,” Patrick says before he can awkwardly ramble on any longer. “Just. Um. Get up here.”

Pete is more than grateful for him in this moment, getting into the bunk as quietly as possible — which isn’t exactly the most ideal situation, since Patrick has a top bunk, and Pete is short — but Patrick grabs onto Pete’s forearms to help pull him up. He knows they have to be quiet, since Hayley’s bunk is just underneath them, but that girl sleeps like the dead, thankfully. They’re probably in the clear.

He rolls ungracefully into bed, pulling the curtain shut behind him, and finds himself in an awkward tangle of limbs with Patrick. They’ve never really shared a bunk before, since it’s so crowded even with just one person, but it’s not like they’re unfamiliar with sharing space. He doesn’t mind the proximity at all. For some reason, it feels easier to do this when they’re in the dark. Pete doesn’t have to be Pete, and Patrick doesn’t have to be Patrick; they’re just two people sharing the same space, the same moment, and that’s all that matters.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Patrick whispers, draping an arm over his side.

Pete shakes his head, pulling Patrick closer to him so that they’re laying chest to chest. “Not really. No nightmares or anything — just anxious.”

“About what?” Patrick presses, sliding his hand up the back of Pete’s shirt to rub circles into his back.

Pete just shrugs, sighing sadly. “I don’t know. I get anxious a lot.” He laughs a bit at his own expense, eyes shining with melancholy. “It’s probably the anxiety.”

Patrick stops rubbing his back, instead reaching up to cradle Pete’s jaw gently in his palm. He slowly sweeps his thumb gingerly along Pete’s cheekbone, back and forth, and Pete’s heart flips. “And sleeping with somebody else...it makes you less anxious?”

“I guess so?” Pete says, suddenly unsure of himself. “I mean, I don’t really know. I don’t have a whole lot to go off of. I just know that it feels better when I’m about to have a panic attack and you’re in bed with me than it does when I’m alone.”

Patrick stills his hand, just for a moment, and leans in for a brush of lips so soft that Pete can’t tell if it’s real or if he’d just imagined it. When he pulls back, he’s got this look in his eyes that Pete can’t quite place, and it makes his cheeks go warm. “You don’t have to go through that alone, anymore. Not if you don’t want to.”

Something in Pete’s chest tightens at that, and god, he’s so tired. “Yeah?”

Patrick just nods, and the constricting feeling in Pete’s chest turns into a burning sensation, tearing him up from the inside out. “Yeah. You can get in my bed whenever you need to.”

Pete’s really not sure how it happens, but it doesn’t take long before he ends up underneath Patrick, exchanging sleepy kisses like currency; generous to give, greedy to receive, and without stopping to come up for air. Patrick is propped up on his elbows, but he’s so tired that he can’t hold himself up as well as usual — which is how Pete ends up with soft hair fluttering in his face, tickling his cheeks, but it’s not like he minds.

“Does this help?” Patrick whispers between kisses, nipping at Pete’s bottom lip. There’s really no way he’s going to sleep now, but he doesn’t mind. He’d pick this — the hot, wet slide of lips and tongue, eager hands roaming over his body, pooling heat in his stomach — over sleep _any day_.

“ _Yes_ ,” Pete sighs contently, grabbing Patrick’s hips to pull him down. He wants him closer, wants to feel the press of Patrick’s body against his, wants to melt into him to become anything other than who he is right now. “Don’t stop.”

Patrick smiles, a breathy chuckle falling from his lips. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good,” he murmurs into Patrick’s mouth, kissing him while he’s still laughing. The smile on his face makes Pete want to smile, too, so he lets himself do it, if only because Patrick can’t see him. He knows Patrick can feel the way the corners of his lips curl up, the happiness kicking to life in his chest, but it’s easier to pretend now. He lets Patrick gently press him into the mattress, lets him take control and work his magic just enough that Pete doesn’t have to think anymore. It seems that not thinking because of Patrick is one of his favorite hobbies, these days.

Patrick pulls back from his mouth then, and Pete is about to protest when Patrick rolls his hips against Pete’s, which shuts him up pretty fast. He leans forward and kisses his way down Pete’s jaw, works his way back to the soft, sensitive spot where it meets his neck. He mouths at it, warm and wet and half-asleep, and Pete lets out a happy, content noise, tipping his head back to give him more access. He wasn’t planning on doing this, _especially_ not in the bunks, but when shit like this happens…well, it’s not like he’s going to say no.

“ _Patrick,_ ” he breathes out, shuddering blissfully. He rolls his hips up, grinding his dick into Patrick’s thigh, _feels_ Patrick just as hard against him, oh _fuck_. “Why have we never done this before? This is _perfect_ ; I would totally let you fuck me _right now_.”

At that, Patrick seems to realize what they’re doing and pulls back abruptly, collapsing on Pete’s chest and tucking his head underneath his chin. Pete’s heart skips a beat, like he’s done something wrong, but Patrick just slips a hand under Pete’s shirt and stays there, completely frozen against him.

“We shouldn’t do this right now,” Patrick says, keeping his voice monotone. “Not here.”

“But we —”

“We can’t, Pete.”

Pete feels a pang of sadness strike his chest, because he knows he’s gone too far — curse his tired brain for talking too much. He misses the affection, but doesn’t say anything else; he wraps his arms around Patrick and just _exists_ with him for a while. They lay there for minutes that feel like hours, simply listening to each other breathe, before Patrick finally rolls off of him.

“Did I do something wrong?” Pete asks tentatively, worried gaze locked with Patrick’s.

“No, no, of course not. This just isn’t what you need right now,” Patrick whispers, offering no other explanation. “You need to sleep.”

_But what if I want this?_ He wants to ask, _what if I don’t want to sleep and I want you right now?_

But he doesn’t, because Patrick’s probably right. So he simply turns over, back to Patrick, because he knows that he’s not going to be able to stop himself if he has to look at him. Patrick curls around him, though, one arm thrown over his chest and face pressed into his shoulder, and this really doesn’t aid his situation _at all._

_This is great. Just great._ Pete’s still got an awkward erection, and it’s not helping that he has Patrick along his back, hips pressed against his ass, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He manages to fall into a fitful sleep, waking hot and restless every couple of hours, before he finally just pulls himself out of Patrick’s arms. He’s still painfully turned on, thanks to the weirdly vivid dreams he’d managed to slide into between the gaps of waking up, which is a big inconvenience. If he doesn’t do something about this, he’s never gonna be able to _actually_ sleep.

So he slips out of bed before anyone else is awake, careful not to disturb Patrick’s sleep, and quietly returns to his own bunk. It takes him all of ten seconds before he shoves his hand down his pants, not even trying to pretend he’s thinking of anyone other than Patrick — that mouth, those _lips_ , oh god — biting a blanket firmly between his teeth to keep himself from making any noise. It doesn’t take long at all for him to come, even given how tired he is.

He wipes his sticky hand on an older pair of sweatpants at the foot of his bed, exhaustion beginning to overtake him once more. He feels tired, _dirty_ , and for once in his life he wishes he hadn’t given up Ativan so that he could take some to knock himself out faster. Crawling under the covers, he closes his eyes and begs for sleep to claim him, if only so that he won’t have to think about what this means in the long run.

 

—

 

They’ve got ten shows left until it’s all over.

Pete’s excited to get home. He can’t wait to be back in Chicago, he misses his apartment, and he’s tired of sitting on the road for hours, but something’s been bugging him for the past few weeks. He’ll miss the stage and the crowds, sure, but that’s not what’s kept him up for hours on end, just laying in his bunk and thinking. He’ll miss being around Bebe all the time, and Joe, and Andy, and Hayley — all of them, really — but that’s still not what’s bothering him. It had taken him a while to figure out what it was, and even longer to finally admit it to himself, but there’s really no denying it.

It’s Patrick. Pete’s not ready to give him up yet.

He’s kind of scared shitless, because he doesn’t really know what to do about it, for fear that Patrick will just laugh right in his face if he tells him. But they’ve been... _different_ lately, almost acting like friends. Close friends, even; they don’t only hang out when they hook up, they’ve actually been spending a lot of time together. And it’s...nice. He doesn’t want it to be over.

It’s on a sunny morning, driving through a state that Pete can’t be bothered to remember the name of, when he finally decides to confront Patrick about it. The blonde is sitting in his bunk, curtain drawn open to let the light in, reading some book about the history of folk music, for whatever reason. (Patrick insists that he likes collecting knowledge; Pete just doesn’t ask about it.)

As soon as everyone else is watching TV in the front, not paying attention, he makes his way back to the bunks. They’ll have to be quieter than he’d like, but there’s really no “good” time to do this — he has to make do with the time he has now. He walks over so that he’s standing in front of Patrick, and clears his throat awkwardly. Patrick glances up at him for a second, nodding slightly. “Hey, Pete. What do you want?”

“Tour’s almost over,” Pete says, searching Patrick's expression for any inkling of emotion. The blonde puts up a pretty good poker face, but it's beginning to waver. He keeps up the front anyway, using sarcasm as his defense like always.

After a long moment, he closes his book, looking up at Pete inquisitively. “Yeah, and the sun is hot, and the sky is blue. What are you saying, Pete?”

He gestures rapidly between them, feeling his heart rate kick into overdrive. “I...this. Us. I don’t want…” Patrick raises an eyebrow at him and he swallows hard, shoving down the last of his pride. “I don’t want what we have to be over when the tour ends.”

Patrick tries to act nonchalant, but Pete sees the way his eyes widen under the long sweep of his eyelashes. His mouth suddenly feels incredibly dry, like he wants to speak, but he can’t. “I mean, it’s not like we have to figure that out yet. We still have two weeks.”

“That’s just it — we have _two weeks_ , Patrick,” Pete blurts out, biting the inside of his cheek nervously. “Don’t tell me that you’re ready to just walk out on this, because I know you’re not, and I’m not, either.”

“What do you want from me, Pete?” Patrick sighs, finally looking up to meet his gaze directly. The raw edge to it plunges into Pete’s chest exactly like a knife, striking him right in the heart. “Be honest with me.”

Pete opens his mouth for a second, but snaps it shut just as quickly. He reaches out, pulls the curtain farther back, and hoists himself up into Patrick’s bunk. Patrick’s eyes widen, surprised, but he scoots back to make room anyway. It’s cramped with the both of them in there, but to Pete, it just feels...necessary to be close to him at this moment. His gaze falls down to his lap, and he skims his fingers over the sheets nervously, thinking about how he felt the last time he was in this bed.

“I want you,” Pete admits quietly, his voice taking on a note of desperation. “I want you, I want _us,_ fuck, Patrick, I don’t know. I don’t wanna lose you.”

Patrick's eyes widen at ‘lose you,’ but he shakes it off like a pro, expression softening. “I...I want us, too. I like what we’ve been doing. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Okay, so we’re doing this,” Pete says, half relieved and half unbelieving of it, even though he just heard it firsthand. “We’re not done?”

Patrick shakes his head, and Pete finally lets out the breath he’s been holding in. “Not if you don’t want us to be.”

“I don’t!” Pete exclaims much too quickly, watching as the corners of Patrick’s lips curl into a small smile. “I mean...I care about you. I want to see you again.”

Patrick laughs, a little nervously, but the relief in it is still music to Pete’s ears. “So we’re finally treating each other like friends now, huh?”

_Friends with benefits, more like,_ Pete wants to say, but he keeps his lips zipped. “Yeah, I guess we are. So just...promise me that this isn’t the end? And that we’ll stay in each other’s lives after this?”

Patrick smiles sheepishly, and Pete feels his stomach flip again. “Duh, dumbass. We both live in Chicago. It’s not like it’ll be _hard_ to keep up with each other.”

Something in Pete’s chest soars, and he can’t keep the smile off his face as he says, “okay, cool. I’m...definitely cool with that.”

Patrick shakes his head, chuckling softly. “You’re bad news, Pete Wentz,” he says, and Pete thinks he may be wrong to get his hopes up, but then Patrick smiles at him like none of it matters. Maybe it doesn’t. “But that’s okay. I like you anyway.”

 

—

 

And Patrick keeps his promise — even as they’re stepping off the bus, he promises Pete he’ll be over soon as soon as he gets his stuff settled back in his apartment.

Three hours later, Pete is met with a knock on his door and Patrick waiting for him, to his great surprise. He hadn’t expected Patrick to mean he’d come over _this_ soon, but it’s not like he minds. He’s gotten used to having a ton of people around him all the time over the course of the summer, and going home and having to be alone seemed...daunting, almost. Having Patrick around feels a lot more normal than being by himself these days, whatever that means. He puts off thinking about it too much and just enjoys his presence.

It starts off with Patrick coming over a few days a week, hanging out and, well, _you know_ , before leaving, but it quickly turns into something else. Soon, Patrick’s spending the night, and Pete has to force himself to get out of bed in the mornings, and Patrick is bugging him to get more eggs...and...and...yeah. Yeah, all of that is happening, and if it freaks him out just a little bit, he doesn’t say anything about it, because he thinks he could get used to it.

Pete’s become so accustomed to what Patrick wears on stage that seeing him in everyday clothes throws him off a bit, at first. For one thing, he seems to have given up on wearing his contacts ever since tour ended, sporting a pair of thick-rimmed glasses that are constantly sliding down the bridge of his nose instead. His hair is starting to revert back to its normal state — which is still blonde, though much darker than Pete had been expecting. His suit jackets have been swapped for cardigans, slacks for ripped jeans, and it feels like Pete’s uncovered a whole new side to him — the real side.

And he likes that. He likes that he gets to see the real, unguarded Patrick, the one who doesn’t hide behind bowties and fingerless gloves. Pete doesn’t change much from his apartment to the stage, but this Patrick — the authentic Patrick — puts a warm feeling in his chest every time Pete finds him doing something domestic around the apartment. It’s like a space where they can both let their guard down and be themselves around each other, something almost revolutionary to them.

He especially loves the apartment for one very good reason: he and Patrick can be as loud as they want, whenever they want, doing whatever they want.

He’s also a fan of being able to have _actual_ shower sex now, a luxury he never knew he would be so grateful for. Granted, there’s still the slipping and sliding around, and he’s got countless bruises from Patrick accidentally kneeing him or kicking him during a foot slip, and even one from when he threw his arms out as he fell (and vice versa, of course), but it’s worth it to see Patrick under the spray of the water, to watch the steam curl around him, to hear what his moans sound like ringing off the tile.

And afterward, if Patrick falls into Pete’s bed tangled up with him, sleepy and clean and smelling like Pete’s shampoo, then that’s just an added bonus.

He doesn’t only love having Patrick around for the sex, though; he’s not that shallow — well, not anymore, anyways. They do normal friend things together too: they watch shows on Netflix together, they argue about old movies, they eat way too much junk food and then fall asleep on the couch playing video games. It’s like having a best friend who lives at your house for like half the week, and it’s kind of really fucking awesome.

There’s still a weird gray area, though, where it almost feels like what they’re doing could be more than friends with benefits would normally do, based on past experience. Some of the occurances in the gray-area territory are possibly Pete’s favorites, though. Waking up to good morning kisses (and, uh, occasionally blowjobs), finding Patrick’s clothes in his laundry, hearing demos for the album that Patrick’s working on and being the only one who’s ever listened to them; those are all definite perks in Pete’s book.

It takes a while before he realizes it, but Patrick’s kind of cemented himself a permanent place in Pete’s life — and both of them are perfectly okay with that.

 

—

 

After months and months of meticulous recording on Patrick’s part (and lots of subtle encouragement on Pete’s part), _Soul Punk_ drops on October 18th. And, of course, the label throws him a launch party — which involves renting out the entire ballroom of a very nice hotel, inviting practically everyone Gabe knows in the music business, and (the best part, in Pete’s opinion) an open, unlimited bar.

He’d made the effort to look good — throwing on a nice button-up shirt and tie instead of his well-worn Metallica t-shirt, for once — but Patrick...well, to say that he looks great is an understatement. He looks _amazing_ , decked out in a suit that must be tailored _perfectly_ to him. He walks with a sense of confidence that Pete’s rarely ever seen before, all smiles and polite conversations. The best part, though, is that he’s so happy, he honestly seems like he’s glowing. His energy is magnetic, and as Pete’s halfway through his second glass of champagne, he finds himself drawn to finding out where exactly Patrick has gone so that he can tell him that himself.

It takes a minute or two of searching, but Pete finally finds him at the bar, surrounded by people from the music industry he’s never even heard of before — but of course they’d flock to Patrick, he’s _Patrick._ Pete catches his gaze for a minute and smiles, knowing that he’ll get his turn eventually. He hasn’t really seen Patrick all night, but he’s not annoyed about it; he knows that it’s a huge night, and he’s willing to wait.

Finally, the strangers seem to excuse themselves and wade back into the party, giving Pete his opening. He walks back to the bar, plasters himself against Patrick’s back before he can turn around, and rests his chin on his shoulder. “Hey there, Mr. Hotshot.”

Patrick tilts his head back to meet his gaze and grins, relaxed and free of any inhibitions. His fair hair falls in his eyes and his cheeks are flushed bright pink from the amount of alcohol he’s had tonight — _definitely_ more than Pete’s gotten his hands on. It's the prettiest sight Pete's ever seen. “Hey, yourself.”

Patrick rests heavily against him, warm and unguarded, and Pete sets down his drink to wrap his arms around his waist. Patrick hums contently, closing his eyes and soaking up the attention. It’s way too intimate for a party like this, and yet Pete can’t bring himself to care. He dips his head forward, pressing tender kisses to Patrick’s jaw, and feels everything else around them begin to go blurry. “So how does it feel to have a #1 album?”

“I don’t, and I won’t,” Patrick says, leaning into the affection. “It’s not like I’m popular in the music industry or anything. It probably won’t even hit the charts.”

“Well, it should,” Pete muses, nosing his cheek. “You’re good. Really good, actually.”

Patrick gives him a lax smile, turning his head to catch his lips briefly. “Careful, people might start thinking that you don’t actually hate me. Can’t have that, can we?”

Pete frowns in confusion, eyebrows furrowing. Why would he hate Patrick? He’s a very talented musician and the best kisser Pete knows and can even be funny when he puts in the effort — kind of the epitome of the nearly-perfect human, in his eyes. “Hate you? Why would I?”

Patrick opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but apparently thinks better of it. He turns around in Pete’s arms, sliding his arms over his shoulders to link his fingers behind Pete’s neck, and pushes himself up on his toes to close the slight height gap. Patrick usually isn't this easygoing with his affections — well, not in public — but if this is what a couple of drinks does to him, Pete's gonna have to go to parties with him _way_ more often.

_This is a bad idea,_ the voice in the back of Pete's head says. _Everyone can see you. They're all gonna know._

Then Patrick licks into his mouth, sliding his tongue teasingly across Pete's bottom lip, and _fuck it_ , he’ll deal with this tomorrow. If nothing else, they can just use the drunk excuse — it'll work enough, seeing as Pete's always been a pretty tactile person, drunk or not. Pete returns the kiss eagerly, his hands sliding down to find Patrick’s hips. Patrick sighs into his mouth blissfully, smiling against his lips, and the warmth flickering in Pete’s chest ignites into a full-blown flame. He wants to pull Patrick away from the party, take them somewhere that it can just be the two of them, keep him all to himself and treat him like the absolute _gift_ that he is...

...and someone clears their throat from right behind them.

They immediately jerk apart, cheeks pink, lips still red and spit-slick, and there's a pang of sadness in Pete's stomach. Patrick's hands are suspended in the air, like he doesn't quite know where to put them, and he shoves them into his pockets. The intruder — it's Joe, go figure — smiles at both of them, winking at Pete in particular. “Am I interrupting something?”

_Yes, you are,_ Pete thinks, but he bites his tongue. Patrick turns away, hiding his face in his shoulder, and Pete can already feel the embarrassed heat in his cheeks burning down his neck and through his chest. “Uh, hey Joe. What’s up?”

Joe shrugs, trying to act nonchalant. “Oh, you know. Just thought I'd come over to congratulate Patrick on the album release, but if you're _busy,_ I can —”

“— nope, everything’s fine,” Patrick says, almost squeaking, as he scuffs his shoe against the ground like it’s become the most interesting thing in the world. “Thanks, Joe. I appreciate it.”

“Any time, man. Could I maybe talk to Pete for a second, if that's okay with you?” Joe asks, smiling brightly down at him.

Patrick rubs the back of his neck and nods awkwardly. “Uh, yeah, of course! I'll just, um, go —” he gestures vaguely toward the main dancefloor, “— out there.” He locks gazes with Pete, almost like he's making sure that he knows where he'll be, and takes off.

Pete looks over at Joe, who already has a smug smile on his face, and wants to shoot him. Or himself. Or both. “So, you and Patrick, huh? Thought you two didn't get along.”

“We _didn't_ , but we do now...but it's not like _that_ , I...it’s…” Pete trails off, pressing his palms into his eyes. He doesn't know where he's going with this. When did everything get so goddamn confusing? “It's complicated.”

“Complicated? Sorry to break it to you, buddy, but the two of you were just making out in the middle of a party — _Patrick’s_ party — where a million people are dying to talk to him, and he didn’t even care. And, judging by the way you keep looking for him, you don’t care either.” Joe raises an eyebrow, and Pete wants to punch him just so he won’t be right. “Face it, man. You two are like, really into each other. I don’t see what’s so complicated about it.”

Pete’s silent for a few seconds before sighing in defeat, beckoning one of the bartenders over. “I need another drink.”

“Knew you'd end up liking him,” Joe mumbles, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. “So who...you know?”

Pete groans, trying to cover his reddening cheeks with his hand. “If you have to know, we switch, you asshole.”

“I was gonna ask who initiated this whole thing, but thanks for telling me details I didn't need to know.” Joe chuckles, biting his lip to keep it from spilling into full blown laughter. This only makes Pete’s cheeks redden even more, and he really wishes that the bartender would get him a drink already. “So what's complicated about it? You like him and he likes you.”

“We're not technically together, but we are, but we're not, and it's just…” Pete throws his hands around in some kind of vague hand gesture, hoping that Joe will understand what he means. “You know?”

“So you're just hooking up?” Joe asks, and while technically that's what it is, Pete doesn’t really feel like it's the right answer anymore.

“I mean I guess, but not really. I just...it stopped feeling like just ‘hooking up’ a while ago. Maybe ‘friends with benefits’, I don't know.” Pete stares down at his hands, trying to figure out where everything got so twisted. _Feelings. Having feelings is where it all got twisted._ “Dude, I haven't slept with anyone else in nearly half a year, not since before Patrick and I first, well, you know.”

“Damn,” Joe says, before his eyes quickly light up in realization. “Wait, you guys were fucking while we were _on tour_? And you just let us think that you were finally friends or something, not…”

Pete shrugs. “In hindsight, we all probably should have seen this coming.”

“No kidding.” The bartender finally makes his way over, and Joe orders them another round of shots, which Pete is internally grateful for. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

“As of right now, nothing,” Pete says, his gaze drifting over to Patrick, who's talking to a formally-dressed woman Pete doesn't know. Patrick catches him staring out of the corner of his eye and smiles, Pete mirroring the smile out of habit. “I don't want to mess this up. What we have is good.”

It's not just good, it's better than anything he's had in a long while. He's not stupid; he knows he has a tendency of putting his foot in his mouth and saying all the wrong things. Patrick is quickly becoming his best friend, but it’s dangerous territory. If he takes this too slow or too fast, he could lose Patrick and everything they've built up over the past couple of months, and that's not something he's willing to risk.

Joe's frowning at him when he looks back over, and his stomach turns over. “But don't you want something more than this? Even just a little bit?”

It hits Pete like a blow to the chest, because that's something he hasn't let himself think about — something he'll probably continue to push down when he's sober enough. But right now, with the alcohol mingling with his blood, he can't bring himself to push away the idea anymore because the truth is _yes._ It's yes, so much that it hurts.

“You do,” Joe says softly, answering for him, and Pete feels his stomach drop. “Shit, man. I’m sorry. I'm not too great at advice; you could probably get better help from someone else.”

“No!” Pete snaps, and Joe nearly jumps in surprise. “You can't tell anyone about this,” Pete warns him, trying to look as menacing as possible.

“Not even Andy?” Joe asks teasingly, raising his eyebrows as he downs the last of his shot.

“ _Especially_ not Andy!” Pete hisses, feeling a twinge of annoyance that Joe still isn't getting just how serious this is. “If I wanted to get chewed out and have my ass handed to me, I would've gone to Andy. I didn't even want to tell anybody — consider yourself lucky.”

Joe makes a zipping motion across his mouth, grinning brightly at him. “My lips are sealed. Though, fair warning, you guys should probably try to be a bit more subtle.”

“Yeah, yeah, we're done here,” Pete mutters, throwing back his head and downing his entire shot right then and there. He grimaces a bit, but he knows he's going to need it. “I'm outta here.”

“Okay, have fun with Patrick!” Joe giggles, waving his fingers at him and batting his eyelashes, and Pete rolls his eyes.

“Joe. Seriously.”

“Come _on_ Pete,” Joe laughs, slapping his ass to get him moving. “Get your head out of your ass and go get your man.”

Pete shakes his head, trying to pretend that Joe isn't right, as he heads out onto the dancefloor in search of the man of the hour. He's gotten swallowed up by the crowd — which isn't hard, seeing as he's even shorter than Pete himself — but it's not like he couldn't have gotten _that_ far. This place isn't that big, is it?

“Hey!” A voice calls from behind him, and he whips around, breathing out a sigh of relief. Patrick grins up at him, tie half undone, missing his jacket, and a nearly empty glass in one hand. Pete gently plucks it out of his fingers because he should _not_ be having any more alcohol tonight. As much fun as drunk Patrick is, sober and hungover Patrick is not going to be very pleasant tomorrow morning. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Trust me,” Pete says, placing the glass onto the tray of a passing waiter. “You don't need any more of that tonight. You'll be falling all over the place.”

Patrick frowns, putting his hands on his hips, and Pete can't help but smile at how adorable he looks when he's trying his hardest to be stubborn. “Okay, but I don't have to _worry_ about falling — that's what you're here for.”

Pete grins, resting his hands on either side of his waist. “What, so I'm only here so you don't trip and break your pretty face?”

_“Noooo_ _,”_ Patrick laughs, drawing out the word in a sing-song voice. “Shut up. You're here because I wanna hang out with you.”

“Even more than people that want to talk about your album?”

Patrick looks at him with an incredulous expression on his face. “Are you kidding? They could care less about me; all they care about are singles and money. You at least take an interest in me as a person.”

_Well, duh._ “I don't see why they wouldn't be interested in you. If they knew you like I do…”

Patrick grins again, reaching up gently brush his fingertips against the side of Pete's face. “Are you sure you're not as drunk as I am? You're never this nice to me.”

“You never let me be,” Pete says, feeling his cheeks begin to flush again. “We had an agreement, remember?”

Patrick scrunches up his nose in disapproval, shaking his head. “Fuck agreements. I don’t like those. Keep being nice to me. You’re sweet sometimes, and I like it.”

“Sometimes?” Pete prods, stomach turning anxiously. He knows he’s overstepping the boundaries, but he can’t help himself. It’s the champagne talking for Patrick, that’s for sure, but he’s not gonna argue with it. If their agreement needs some amendments made to it...then so be it. “You sure about that?”

“Did I stutter?” Patrick teases, loosely smirking at him. “Yeah, you’re kinda sweet behind that ‘asshole’ image you try to keep up in front of everyone. I know you, and you’re just a big teddy bear.”

“Am not,” Pete insists, but he knows that Patrick’s hit the nail straight on the head here. He really does wear his heart on his sleeve, whether he likes it or not.

“Are _too_ ,” Patrick retorts, closing the distance between them until they’re chest to chest, barely inches apart. “Admit it, you’re just a big softie.”

Maybe it’s just the alcohol talking, but Pete swears he hears, “for you, maybe” come out of his mouth instead of literally _anything else_ that he meant to say. _Smooth, Pete, good one. Way not to blow your cover._

Patrick ducks his head bashfully, but takes the comment in stride. “See? Softie. Told you.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Pete bluffs, but he’s knows it’s useless. Patrick’s got him backed into a corner here. Thankfully, though, he drops the subject, instead letting his mind wander to what they’re doing for the rest of the night.

“So what’s the plan for tonight?” Patrick asks, raising an eyebrow. “We’ve still got a lot of party left to go, and you’ve taken away my access to _my_ unlimited bar, you asshole.” Pete starts to feel bad, but Patrick grins, flicking him in the nose to break him out of it. “I’m kidding, Pete. But seriously, what’s the plan? I’m down for whatever.”

“It's your night,” Pete murmurs, pushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Patrick leans into his touch again, catching his wrist to kiss his palm softly, and Pete feels his knees go weak. He swipes a thumb slowly along Patrick’s cheekbone, wondering when exactly he'd fallen so hard for someone he couldn't stand at first. To be honest, Pete can't even remember why he disliked Patrick at this point. Those ocean blue eyes are big and bright and beautiful under the colorful lights, and Pete wants nothing more than to push him up against a wall and get lost in his lungs. He doesn’t, though, because that's not his decision to make. “What do _you_ want to do?”

Patrick looks up at him, face lit up in happiness, and all at once the tension in Pete's chest ceases because it's _him_. He leans forward, whispering to Pete — albeit, not very well — like it’s supposed to be a secret. “Kinda just want to dance and make an idiot of myself with you.”

Pete’s heart soars for a moment, filled with warmth at the thought of Patrick wanting to spend the night of his album release with him _._ There are so many other people he could have chosen to be around, many of them a lot more interesting or friendly or desirable than Pete. And yet...he’s still here. And he _wants_ to be there. That’s the real kicker.

“We can do that,” Pete agrees, beaming at him like he’d hung the stars in the sky. He grabs Patrick’s hands and pulls him deeper into the crowd, not even bothering to care about who sees them together. “We can definitely do that.”

 

—

 

Pete wakes up on an unfamiliar sofa with a weird taste in his mouth and at least ten blankets thrown over him. It takes him a moment, but he finally remembers that after leaving the party, they’d gone back to Patrick’s apartment. His memories of getting home last night are a bit hazy — something like doing his best to drive with a hammered and exhausted Patrick blearily giving him directions from the passenger seat — but at least he's waking up on a couch instead of on the floor, even though said couch and floor are not his own.

A loud thud from down the hallway makes him sit up instantly, the blankets covering him falling to the floor. “Patrick?” He calls, getting to his feet — and finding out that, thankfully, he’s still got clothes on.

He’s met with a long, agonized noise, a mix between a groan and a whine, and he fights back the urge to smile. “Pete? I think I’m dead.”

“Come in here, Trick,” Pete yawns, stretching out to wake himself up. When Patrick only makes another whiny noise in response, he rolls his eyes. “Come on, we need to get some food into you so you don’t feel completely miserable. If I have to babysit you through a fucking hangover, we might as well do it right.” Despite the reluctant grumble he gets in reply, Patrick manages to slowly amble down the hallway, and Pete considers it a victory.

“I feel like someone shot me in the head,” Patrick groans, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “On second thought, could you actually shoot me in the head, please? Put me out of my misery.”

Pete chuckles, shaking his head. “Sorry, man, no can do. We’re in deep shit with the label already — I feel like murdering one of my fellow acts might be the final straw for me.”

“Okay, but what if I _asked_ for it?” Patrick continues, stumbling into the bright light of the kitchen. “What if I said it was my dying wish for Pete Wentz of Black Cards to kill me?”

“Yeah, I don’t think Cobra works exactly like the Make-A-Wish Foundation.” Pete grins, amused at how easily they’ve slipped back into a friendly, familiar routine. “I _can_ make you coffee, though. Can’t cook for shit, but I know a couple of places that deliver doughnuts. You in?”

“Fuck yeah,” Patrick mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. “But can we turn off the lights? At least until I don’t feel like I’m dying anymore?”

“My wish is your command, Stump,” Pete replies, giving him a mock salute, and flipping the lightswitch down. “Actually, don’t take that to heart _too much._ I’m just here to help take care of you because I feel bad for you. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Adorable,” Patrick retorts, deadpan. “Now where’s that coffee you promised me?”

It’s a couple of hours after breakfast before Patrick starts to feel normal again, but Pete finds that he doesn’t really want to leave yet, even after he’s told Pete he’s fine at least ten times. He _likes_ hanging out with Patrick, even when they’re not in his apartment. Patrick is his _friend_ — it’s normal to want to spend so much time with him.

This is how they end up sitting on Patrick’s couch together, old photo albums spread out on the coffee table in front of them. They’ve spent god-knows-how-many hours looking at them, but Pete’s not really bored yet. They spend so much time in Pete’s apartment that he rarely ever gets to delve this deep into Patrick’s personal life. It’s nice, being so comfortable with him, being able to be friends. And the way Patrick smiles when their gazes meet, or when he’s telling a story? Well, that’s just an added bonus.

Pete’s about to close his current album and pick up the next one, but when he turns the page, he spots a photo of Patrick holding a guitar — _several_ photos, actually. He pulls the album closer and looks through them with a slight sense of wonder; it shouldn’t be surprising to him by now that Patrick has been a musical genius for years, but it still gets him every time.

“Hey, you never told me you were in a band in high school.” Pete nods toward the album in his hands, holding it out for Patrick to take.

“I was in a couple of bands.” Patrick shrugs, thumbing through the album nonchalantly. “They didn’t really work out, though. Nothing bad — we just didn’t take off or anything.”

“How did I never know you?” Pete asks, closing the gap between them so that he can look at the photos, too. “It sounds like we should've run into each other a lot, being in the same music scene.”

“You did know me,” Patrick replies quietly, softly smiling up at him. “Kind of. I went to some of the early Arma shows with my friends. Met you a couple of times, but not like...extensively. Just enough to say ‘hi.’”

“Oh,” Pete says, feeling the guilt deal a blow to his stomach. “I'm sorry, I feel like an asshole.”

“It’s okay,” Patrick reassures him, “You had a lot of fans. I was just an occasional face in the crowd. Not to mention that I was pretty much still a kid when Arma first took off, so. No biggie.”

Patrick turns the page, and laughs a little bit at the next pictures. “Not to mention the fact that I looked a tad bit different back in the day.”

The picture that catches Pete’s eye is of Patrick from...it has to be at least ten years ago, judging by the style of clothes and the baby fat still clinging to his cheeks. He's got on glasses and a jean jacket, and his hair is so long it nearly reaches his shoulders. His jeans are ripped at the knees, and he's wearing a scuffed pair of Converse. It would almost be impossible to recognize him judging by the clothes — t-shirts replaced by button-downs, slacks instead of ripped jeans.

But the way his head is thrown back, eyes squeezed shut the by width of his smile, mouth open in a loud laugh? That's exactly the same. It strikes a chord in Pete's heart, and his hand reaches out involuntarily to touch the photo. “See, I would know that laugh anywhere. Nobody laughs as hard as you do.”

Patrick elbows him in the ribs, chuckling softly. “Shut up. I’m sure I'm not the worst.”

Pete shakes his head, grinning. “Nope, you definitely are. When you really laugh, you use your whole body. You get into it more than anybody I know.”

“Why do you pay so much attention to my laugh?” Patrick teases, nudging him gently. “Creep.”

Pete’s heart skips a beat for a second, because he doesn't really know the answer. He's not entirely sure when he started paying such close attention to Patrick, but now that he has, he can't go back. It's engraved into his memory. And now, god forbid, he’s got the overwhelming urge to kiss him _right now_.

He shakes it off and plays along, turning it into a joke. “That's right, I'm a stalker. I'm gonna kidnap you and keep you in my basement forever. I'm plotting my next move right now.”

“I'm filing a restraining order,” Patrick retorts, letting the subject drop. “Oh, here’s a picture of my high school graduation!”

Pete loses track of time again, immersing himself in stories from Patrick’s life. He finds himself glad that he actually stayed with Patrick after breakfast, and not just for the doughnuts. They spend another two hours on the couch together, flipping through albums; the only thing that eventually breaks Pete out of his trance is when his phone lights up, displaying 4 unread messages (all from Joe, probably).

“Oh my god, it’s dark outside,” Pete says upon looking up, just noticing the dimness of the room now that sunlight is no longer flooding in through the windows. He looks down at his phone to check the time, and his eyes widen when he reads _7:42._ He’d spent the _entire day_ here, doing absolutely nothing with Patrick, and yet it doesn’t feel like wasted time.

“Oh, I guess it is,” Patrick says, frowning. “Damn, I haven’t even eaten dinner yet.”

“Me either,” Pete says, though that much is obvious. “I should probably get home, then.”

“You...you don’t have to,” Patrick stutters out awkwardly, playing with his hands nervously. “I mean, you don’t have to go home to eat dinner. I can probably make you something. It’s the least I can do for you after taking care of me all day.”

The invitation in his voice is clear, and something in Pete’s stomach drops when he has to decline it. They might be friends now, but he still has to set boundaries somewhere — where were the lines they’d drawn before? He used to be so good at this no-strings-attached thing. What had happened to him? “I appreciate that, but I should really get going. I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow, you know? And I need to shower, and…”

His voice trails off, and Patrick nods. “Yeah, I get that. Seriously, though, I have to do something for you to thank you sometime.”

Pete feels a soft smile grace his lips, and he shakes his head. “We’re friends now, Patrick. Don’t worry about it.”

Patrick follows him to the front door, makes sure he has his coat and his keys and his phone, though it feels more like an excuse to talk to him than actually trying to be helpful. Pete doesn’t mind — he’s honestly looking for reasons to stay, too. He knows exactly where his keys are — right on the hook by the door, where he’d left them when they got here last night — but making awkward small talk with Patrick as they make at least two laps around the house “searching for them” is worth it.

“I guess I’ll see you later, then?” Pete says, but it comes out as more of a question than he’d intended.

“I guess so,” Patrick says quietly, a nervous smile lighting up his face. Pete doesn't miss the way Patrick's gaze flickers down to his lips, and something in the pit of his stomach swoops. It feels, oddly enough, like the end of a really, really good first date, and it wouldn't be right to walk out the door until...

“...can I?” Pete asks, watching as Patrick nods slowly, though not hesitantly. A wave of adrenaline rushes through him, and his hands come up to cradle Patrick's face as he leans in. Patrick's hands rest lightly against his chest, and the fireworks going off in the pit of his stomach make him feel like he's a teenager having his first kiss all over again.

They've kissed before, more times than he can count, but this feels...different. This is an ‘I don't want this date to end’ kiss, a ‘please tell me you’ll let me do this again’ kiss. It's not deep or passionate or anything on the level of some of their more intimate encounters, but it belongs to a new category of longing Pete's not entirely sure he's felt before. His chest _aches_ as he pulls away, and as soon as his eyes open, he wishes he'd never stopped kissing Patrick in the first place.

Patrick is the one to finally break the silence. “Thank you,” he whispers, though Pete's not entirely sure what he's being thanked for.

“Any time,” he replies — and again, he's not entirely sure what he's promising, but there's not a lot he wouldn't do to get Patrick to keep looking at him like that. “Just, uh...call me if you need anything, all right? Don’t be stupid. Don’t do anything I would do.”

“You’re not stupid,” Patrick mumbles, a hint of a smile creeping onto his face. “But all right. Whatever you say, Wentz.”

Pete smiles, and he can’t help but lean in to brush a soft kiss along Patrick’s cheek before he goes. “Thanks for hanging out with me last night. It was fun.”

“Thanks for taking care of my drunk ass,” Patrick blushes lightly, reluctant to meet his gaze. “You're really the best. I mean that.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Pete says, playing with his keys awkwardly. “Uh, I...I guess I’ll see you soon? For real this time.”

“Yes, you will,” Patrick confirms quickly, a shy smile playing on his lips. “I’ll see you later, Pete.”

Pete turns to leave, feeling like he’s floating into space and falling through the ground at the same time. He doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to stop spending time with Patrick, _ever_. It makes him feel like he must still be a little drunk from last night, or at least drunk off the moment, because he swore he wouldn’t let himself get attached. But here he is, confused as hell, and everything in him is screaming _turn around, you idiot!_

Patrick stands in the doorway, watching as he disappears down the hallway. When Pete turns back to look at him before heading into the elevator, Patrick gives him a little half-wave and a smile before heading back inside. The sheer domesticity of Patrick’s sweatpants and socked feet disappearing behind the door burns from the inside out. It feels like his heart is going to fall out of his mouth.

His pulse is racing all the way from the elevator to the parking lot, and his brain absolutely refuses to slow down. As soon as he gets into his car and sits down, it all hits him at once. He knows what this feeling is, has been avoiding and denying it as much as possible, but the strange sense of euphoria radiating from him won't let him deceive himself anymore.

He's in deep shit if this is what he thinks it is.

“I am not going to fall in love with Patrick,” Pete mumbles to himself, running both of his hands through his hair anxiously. He’s 32, for god’s sake, he should not still be getting butterflies. “I am _not_ going to fall in love with Patrick. Nope. Nada. Cannot do that.”

His phone lights up with a text from Patrick all of the sudden, and he nearly jumps straight out of his skin.

 

  * __drive safe!!__


  * _text me when you get home so i know you’re not...like...dead_


  * _also, i know i’ve said it like, a million times, but thank you again. means a lot to me :^)_



 

He's fucked. He is really, truly, honestly _fucked_.

Pete bangs his head on the steering wheel and screams for a solid minute before he can even focus enough to drive home.

 

—

 

Pete hangs up the phone, still hearing Brendon’s voice in his ears, and takes a deep breath. He holds the tickets in his hand, swallowing nervously. Ever since the night of the _Soul Punk_ release party, it’s felt...different between him and Patrick. Not bad different, not good different, just...different, and he can’t exactly put his finger on it, but it’s all he can think about lately.

It’s not a date. It’s just two friends going to a show together — a show that his friend is going to be in, much less. He’s done this a million times before with Joe, Andy, Hayley, pretty much everybody he can think of. It’s not romantic. It’s not special. It’s familiar ground, something that should be his comfort zone.

So why does it feel different now?

Pete sucks in a breath. He’s just got to do it. He grabs the remote all of the sudden, turning off the TV, and Patrick frowns. “Hey, what was that for?”

Pete waves that off. “Okay, so...one of my good friends — Brendon Urie, you probably know him from the label — is performing with his band at this little bar called Harper’s tonight, and...his band is really good, so I’m probably going to go to the show.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow, folding his arms over his chest. “So are you going to take me with you, or were you just planning on interrupting my valuable relaxation time to tell me you were going out tonight?”

Pete grins at that, because he knows that Patrick already knows the answer. “Go get dressed. We leave in half an hour.”

 

-

 

When they get to Harper’s, Pete’s just beginning to calm down. Brendon’s band is set to go on in twenty, he’s got a drink in his hand, and nobody there is focused on him or Patrick — they’re all crowding around the stage, eager to watch the band as soon as they come out. This isn’t a surprise; Panic has always been known to make a night worthwhile, and this is no exception.

Brendon puts on an amazing show, as always, working the stage like it’s his _job_ , and Pete’s proud to know such a natural frontman. He’s still got Spencer on drums, but there are a few new faces in the band that he doesn’t yet know — but that’s okay, because he’s sure he’ll meet them at some point or another. For now, he’s able to kick back and enjoy the performance of one of his oldest friends, a person that believed him when almost nobody else did, and that’s the only thing that matters tonight.

“Thank you for coming out tonight!” Brendon dismisses himself with a flamboyant bow, catching sight of Pete in the crowd. “It’s been nice to see some friendly faces. Anyways, we’re still Panic! at the Disco, and we’ve got a new record coming out soon, so be on the lookout for that!”

“They’re really good,” Patrick murmurs in Pete’s ear, a relaxed smile on his face. “Thanks for bringing me with you.”

“No problem,” Pete replies, grinning right back at him, and it’s like his entire chest goes alight with something bubbly, a sort of blissful happiness he isn’t used to, but could grow _very_ fond of. “I’m gonna talk to Brendon after the show, if that’s cool with you.”

Patrick nods enthusiastically, holding up his empty glass. “Dude, that’s perfect. I was gonna head back to the bar anyway, so you do you. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

He turns to leave, and Pete feels a weird sense of longing watching him go — that is, until he catches sight of Brendon out of the corner of his eye, bouncy and happy and radiating good vibes, as per usual. He bounds across the floor, still full of jubilant energy even after an electrifying performance, and Pete can’t help but smile at him, because _that’s_ reassuring after these past couple of months of uncertainty. If there’s one thing that will always be the same, it’s Brendon’s ability to be...well, so much of _himself_ that it scares people.

“Pete!” He exclaims, arms thrown wide, sweat still dripping from his hair. He engulfs Pete in a tight hug, and he smells kind of _terrible,_  but Pete loves it. It reminds him of touring, performing, something he never thought he’d come to miss so soon. “It’s been _way_ too long since we’ve seen each other, man. How have you been?”

“I’ve been pretty good,” Pete answers, pulling back with a grin on his face. “And it seems like _you_ have been excellent, my friend.”

Brendon lets out a loud, braying laugh, and gestures for a bartender. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. Come on, let’s get ourselves a round here; it’s been ages since I’ve had a proper drink with you.”

So they do; they drink and let themselves get tipsy, watch the room go blurry, and it’s nice. Even though it takes a second for Pete’s head to stop spinning, he feels better than he has in a long time, and it just goes to show that he’s forgotten how much fun he used to have with Panic. He’s _got_ to get Gabe to schedule them for another tour together sometime in the future, that much is certain.

At some point in conversation, Brendon nudges Pete in the ribs, gesturing to Patrick, who’s chattering on obliviously to one of the band members Pete doesn’t yet know across the bar. “So, you two dating?”

Pete chokes on his drink.

As he’s trying to cough enough to breathe again, Brendon awkwardly patting his back in an attempt to help, he can feel his cheeks heating up already. Is their... _interesting relationship_ really that obvious?

“What makes you think that?” He croaks out when he can finally speak again.

Brendon smiles mischievously, eyes brightening. If he suspects something, which Pete guesses he does, he doesn’t make any comments about it. “Oh, nothing. You two just look awfully close. And you'd be really cute together.”

“Nah, we’re not dating,” Pete says, refusing to elaborate any further — this is literally the closest he can come to not lying to Brendon.

The thing is, he _does_ want to date Patrick; he’d realized that as soon as he walked out the door of Patrick’s apartment last week, still dizzy with confusion and elation. Patrick makes him happier than he’d ever expected out of a friends-with-benefits relationship.

“Whatever you say,” Brendon says, still smirking at him, and Pete _really_ hates his friends sometimes — mostly because they’re usually right when he doesn’t want them to be. “Either way, thanks for coming. Means a lot to me that you’d come out to see a small band like mine now that you’re a bigshot or whatever.”

“Oh, fuck you, you know I’d always come out to see you.” Pete rolls his eyes, punching him in the shoulder. “You guys are _talented_ , Brendon. Even without Ross and Walker. I know you’re still gonna do great things and make me proud.”

Brendon laughs, his eyes twinkling. “Damn, that’s high praise, coming from you. What’s made you go soft all of the sudden?”

Pete shrugs, taking another sip from his glass. “I realized it was overrated to be the cold, moody guy that used to scream in Arma Angelus. There’s more to life.”

“Glad you’ve finally found it,” Brendon says, his eyes still glimmering with something mischievous, and Pete doesn’t even have to look up to know that Brendon’s glancing at Patrick as he says it. He’s a bit annoyed that Brendon’s right.

After Pete’s managed to sober up enough to go home and get Patrick to stop talking to that new guy (Kenny, maybe?), he finds himself outside in the early November chill, with Brendon waving to him from the door, a wild grin still on his face. He pulls his jacket tighter around him, Patrick leaning heavily into his side, one arm around Pete and the other drawn close to his body as they make their exit.

“Goodbye, Pete’s not-boyfriend Patrick!” Brendon calls after them, and Pete swears he’s never wanted to punch somebody more in his life.

“What did he say?” Patrick asks, tilting his head in confusion. He’s still got a bit of the drunk glaze over his eyes, and Pete knows that he probably won’t catch onto Brendon’s teasing, which is good. He just needs to get them home, at this point.

“Nothing,” Pete mumbles, trying to act like it’s not a big deal. “Brendon’s just a little shit, that’s all.”

“Okay…?” Patrick says, not quite believing him, but not going to push it. “So anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to watch _The Office_ with me when we get back. I was in the middle of an episode when you so rudely decided to interrupt me,” he teases, his eyes gaining a playful gleam. “If you’re not too busy, that is.”

“Too busy to watch _The Office?_ _”_ Pete retorts, throwing an arm around his shoulders. They sway a little bit, and Patrick laughs as he loses his footing, clutching onto his arm, and Pete’s heart actually skips a fucking beat. His chest fills and holds, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face as he rights himself. “Never. Come on, I think I can still find some popcorn if I search my cabinets.”

 

—

 

It’s the middle of December when everything really goes to shit.

They’re en route to one of Patrick’s favorite bakeries (which is quickly becoming one of Pete’s favorites as well), Moon Café, a small shop barely big enough to hold three tables, that makes the best crepes either of them have ever tasted. Though the cold wind is biting, light snow falls around them, making it feel like this is a scene straight out of a movie. Patrick trudging ahead of him, covered up to his nose in a huge coat and scarf combo, cheeks bright red from the frigid air — that’s one movie scene he wouldn’t mind rewatching.

And then, as his luck would have it, Pete sees Mikey Way emerging from the record shop across the street.

He quickly ducks under the awning of the bakery, pulling Patrick with him. Patrick raises an eyebrow at him inquisitively, but goes along with him anyway, for which Pete is infinitely grateful. He manages to maneuver himself so that Patrick’s standing in front of him, blocking most of him from view — that’s going to have to work enough for the next two minutes, anyway.

“Pete, what is it?” Patrick asks, lips drawn into a frown in a mix of concern and confusion. “What’s wrong? You know you can tell me.”

“It’s just my ex,” Pete mumbles under his breath, nodding toward the tall man walking on the other side of the street. “I haven’t seen him in forever. Didn’t really expect to see him here.”

Patrick turns around as nonchalantly as possible, but even so, his eyes widen as he recognizes who it is, his mouth dropping open in surprise. “You dated _Mikey Way?_ The musician?”

“ _Shh!_ ” Pete hisses, slapping one hand over his mouth. “Don’t say that so loud.”

“Why?” Patrick asks, his gaze darting from Pete, to Mikey, and back to Pete again. “He’s _good_ _,_ dude. I’d practically be _asking_ the tabloids to print pictures of us together.”

“That’s not it. I don’t really want him to notice me,” Pete explains, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “We, uh...when we broke up, he sort of...dumped me. We haven’t talked much since. It’s embarrassing.”

“That’s rough,” Patrick says, his expression softening. He draws Pete’s hand away from his mouth to intertwine their fingers, smiling mischievously. “It’s never fun to be the dumpee.”

“What are you —?” Patrick cuts him off, shaking his head.

“Just trust me, okay?”

Pete’s eyes are glued to Mikey’s figure, still as long and lean as ever, striking even wrapped in a coat and scarf that cloak most of his features. A pang of loneliness hits his chest, because even if he doesn’t want Mikey anymore, he can’t help but miss what it felt like to be in love with someone who loved him back. “Yeah, okay?”

“Hey,” Patrick murmurs, gently squeezing Pete’s hand to get his attention. “I have an idea. Look at me.”

As soon as Pete looks over, Patrick hits him with a smile that makes him freeze in place. All thoughts of Mikey subside, emotions for Patrick bubbling to the surface instead because... _goddamn_ , he’s beautiful. In terms of luck, Pete really did hit the jackpot with this one. Patrick pushes himself up on his toes, using his free hand to cup Pete’s face gently, and kisses him right there, in the middle of the sidewalk. His heartbeat fumbles over itself for a couple of seconds before he remembers to kiss back, but as soon as he does, the world disappears just like it always does when he’s with Patrick. He has no idea how long they stand there — seconds, minutes, none of it matters. He’ll be reliving this moment over and over again, either way.

When Patrick pulls back, confident that he’s gotten their point across, the blush in his cheeks hits Pete right in the chest. “You think he saw us?”

Pete has no idea whether Mikey saw them or not, but truthfully, he couldn’t care less — not with the way his head is spinning right now. “Huh?”  
Patrick snickers at him a bit, nosing his cheek gently. “Your ex, dipshit. There’s no way he _couldn’t_ have noticed that. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Something in Pete’s stomach falls, because, yeah, of _course_ Patrick was just helping him out — why had he gotten so caught up in it? “Oh, right, thank you.”

“Oh, fuck,” Patrick breathes, his gaze flicking back to peer curiously at someone crossing the street. “I think he’s coming over to talk to you.”

“Shit,” Pete hisses, his stomach flipping. His gaze locks on Patrick’s, and he knows he’ll probably regret what he’s about to do, but that’s not gonna stop him from doing it anyway. “Fuck, this is a weird question, but could you...like...pretend to be my boyfriend? So I don’t seem pathetic?”

“Way ahead of you, man,” Patrick says, slipping his hand into Pete’s once more. “Also, stop calling yourself pathetic. You’re not.”

Before Pete gets a chance to really respond to that, Mikey’s there, right in front of him, and his mind goes blank.

“Hey, Pete!” Mikey greets him, looking over the two of them curiously. “This someone new I should know about?”

“Uh, yeah,” Pete says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. He’s doing terrible at this talking thing, but maybe he can play it off as being embarrassed that they got caught in front of Mikey. “Patrick is my boyfriend.”

“Nice to meet you!” Patrick exclaims, holding his free hand out for Mikey to shake. The taller man looks hesitant and unsure, but does it anyway, his expression softening. “I’ve heard some of your stuff. It’s good. It’s a shame I don’t see you around at more events, but then again, I don’t get out much.”

The praise catches Mikey off guard, and he stammers his way through whatever he was going to say next. “I-I...uh, thank you. I’m a fan of your work, too. Congrats on the album release, by the way.”

“Thank you!” Patrick accepts the compliment graciously, moving to lean against Pete’s side. He squeezes Pete’s hand reassuringly, gently turns his head to brush a kiss over his shoulder. It feels so real, so natural, that it hurts. “Wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for this one.”

Pete blushes, _actually blushes_ _,_ at that, lost for words. “That’s not true, that album was your baby. I just kept nagging at you to get it done so I could hear it all already.”

Patrick shakes his head, smiling bashfully. “You call it nagging, I call it motivation. Either way, that’s the only reason why the album came out as early as it did.”

Pete’s stomach flips, because there’s a hint of truth to that; he _had_ been pretty incessant in his urging Patrick to finish the album, but that’s because the music was so good, the world deserved to hear it. Did Patrick really consider his annoying nagging to be motivation? Or is it just another part of the web they’re spinning for Mikey?

“That’s so sweet,” Mikey remarks, smiling genuinely at them. “How long have you two been together?”

Pete freezes up, not having planned for this, but Patrick jumps in and saves him before it becomes obvious. “We’ve been... _together_ for a while, but we didn’t make it official until just recently.” He shoots a warm smile at Pete, who can’t help but return it. Patrick’s really damn good at this acting thing — Pete’s lucky that he’s his fake boyfriend instead of, like, Joe. “Didn’t really want the press or stupid rumors to interfere with our relationship, right? We’re kind of trying to stay lowkey, so we’d appreciate it if you could too, you know?”

Pete has to bite his lip to keep his mouth from falling open in shock, because _damn_ _,_ Patrick really had thought of everything. He squeezes Patrick’s hand, hopes he can feel how impressed he is through it, and continues on with the act. “Yeah, we don’t want anything to mess this up. I really feel like this, _we_ , could be something special.”

Patrick doesn’t have to know that the smile lighting up his face isn’t faked at all.

Mikey looks at them with a slight unease, but beams back at them nonetheless. “That’s great, Pete. I’m happy for you guys. And don’t worry — your secret is safe with me.”

Pete has to keep himself from jumping up and down until Mikey’s out of sight, because he had no idea that would ever work so well. Patrick looks to be almost as excited as him, a smile threatening to curl up the ends of his lips. They watch until he’s all the way down the block, out of sight, and then Pete’s finally able to let out the breath he’s been holding in.

“Did you see that?” Patrick exclaims, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “He was _so_ jealous, Pete.”

“It only worked because of you!” Pete grins, nudging him with his elbow. “I had no idea what to say, but _you_...you handled everything perfectly.”

Patrick smiles back at him, filling his chest with warmth. “I mean, I _am_ pretty good.”

“You’re a genius,” Pete reassures him, voice going soft with fondness. “Seriously, I have no idea what I would’ve done if you weren’t here. Thank you.”

Patrick shrugs bashfully, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

Pete’s stomach drops, but he plasters a smile on anyway. _Yeah, friends. Just friends. Friends with benefits. Don’t get ahead of yourself._ “C’mon, my _hero_ _,_ I’ll buy your crepe. Let’s go inside.”

 

—

 

The holidays roll around, and Pete is alone.

It’s too quiet in the empty apartment, so he’s got the TV on, watching old Christmas movies and eating sugar cookies by himself because...what else is he supposed to do? He doesn’t really feel like going out, and most of his friends are spending the day with their families; he can’t interrupt that. He knows it’s pretty pathetic, sitting alone in his apartment on Christmas Day, and... _fuck_ , he misses Patrick. He’s lonely. He should get a dog or something.

Fuck, who is he kidding? He doesn’t want a dog. He wants Patrick.

Patrick, unfortunately, is spending the holidays with his family, so Pete’s kind of stuck at home by himself. He can’t help but think about how, if Patrick was actually his boyfriend, he’d be going through the awkward meet-the-family ritual right now, listening to Patrick’s mom talk about how proud she is of her baby boy, and his father staring him down protectively from across the room. He’d meet Patrick’s siblings, who would do their best to embarrass their little brother, and he’d get along spectacularly with the family pets. With boyfriends and girlfriends of the past, he’d found the whole routine anxiety-inducing at best, deliriously boring at worst, but he’s come to find that with Patrick things are always different, in a good way.

Most of all, he’d be a part of Patrick’s life that actually _meant_ something, not just...whatever they are now.

And part of him knows that this is only him being emotional and lonely because he’s not with his family on the actual _day_ of Christmas — they’d done a fake Christmas celebration the weekend before, when they could all be together — but it still hurts that he’s by himself. He used to be fine alone, when keeping to himself meant that he could do whatever he wanted, but lately everything seems just a little bit brighter when he’s got somebody at his side.

God, he really has gone soft. Brendon was right.

The only good part of spending Christmas alone? He can make as many winter-themed alcoholic drinks as he wants, and nobody can stop him. It’s the perfect remedy for loneliness that doesn’t actually involve other people. He’s got eggnog in the fridge, bourbon in his pantry, and an internet full of recipes to explore. It’s looking like tonight’s going to end up being a blur, which is probably not a bad thing, if he’s being honest.

Thirty minutes later and he’s tipsy on bourbon eggnog, watching as the lights outside his window flicker through a rainbow of colors, and a pang of sadness weighs on his chest. Patrick had helped him hang those lights, laughing as Pete had leaned halfway out the window, somewhat convinced he was going to fall to his death. Patrick had just grinned and chuckled and held him around the waist, and while Pete had been joking to begin with, he certainly wasn’t going to admit that if this was Patrick’s solution to the problem.

And _everything_ just leads back to _him_ , doesn’t it? No matter what Pete does, despite his best efforts, he can’t get this guy out of his brain, and that’s something he’s not familiar with. It would be so easy if he’d held himself to the promise he made in the beginning, no strings attached, if he’d been able to keep his goddamn grudge, but Patrick has filled a hole in his life that he wasn’t even aware of before. He’s not just this guy Pete fools around with; he’s this guy that Pete could see himself dating, a guy that Pete trusts, someone that’s become his best friend under the strangest of circumstances. He should’ve known that he was doomed from the start, because what other luck would the universe give him?

_“I almost wish there weren’t a holiday season. I know nobody likes me. Why do we have to have a holiday season to emphasize it?_  Charlie Brown asks from the TV, and Pete just groans in understanding.

“You got that one right, pal,” he says, raising his glass and downing the rest of the eggnog in one gulp. He’s really just feeling sorry for himself now, but fuck it, he’s allowed to wallow in self-pity every once in a while. It’s only reasonable when he’s in the most confusing situation he’s ever experienced in his fucking _life_. He deserves at least one melodramatic meltdown over this whole thing.

His phone buzzes with a text, and his heart flips when he realizes it’s from Patrick. He’s drunk by now, but not too drunk that he can’t read, so he’s got a goofy smile on his face and a blush tinting his cheeks and...you know, maybe it’s not such a bad thing that he’s alone so that nobody can tease him over this later. This is just plain embarrassing.

 

  * __merry christmas, pete__


  * _i hope you get everything you want <3_



 

_But you’re not here_ , Pete thinks, and he realizes that he is really, _really_ in too deep now. He turns his phone off, sighs deeply, and heads to the kitchen in search of more liquor. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll black out through the rest of the holiday.

 

—

 

A week later, Pete is, sadly, woken at 8:30 AM by three missed calls, seven text messages, and one voicemail, all from Joe Trohman.

He squints at the brightness of his phone screen, scrolling through all of the missed texts in confusion.

 

  * __pete you up???__


  * _dude i know you and patrick have a busy sex life but you still gotta wake up sometime_


  * _maybe i’m just up freakishly early_


  * _am i a freak of nature pete_


  * _okay this isn’t what i called you about_


  * _since you’re probs still asleep bc you’re not answering your phone, read this article when you wake up. and CALL ME_



 

The last text is just a link to some gossip website Pete recognizes, and he groans quietly, slipping out of bed to find his laptop. If someone’s going to be out there spreading shit about him, he might as well have his email pulled up and ready to send it to Gabe. He copies down the link and types it in with hesitant hands, preparing for the worst.

The title of the article reads “Pete Wentz — spotted with a new boyfriend?” in large, obnoxious font at the top of the page, but that’s not what catches his eye. Right underneath the title, there are three high-resolution pictures of himself and Patrick from the other day, at the bakery, and Pete suddenly feels a lot more awake. They’d been so focused on Mikey at the time that they hadn’t even noticed anybody with a camera, but the proof is right there in front of him. He’s kind of fucked.

He’s fucked because how he feels about Patrick is more obvious than he originally thought. It’s _way obvious._ The way Pete’s hand rests on his side and the honest expression on his face as Patrick kisses him reveals _everything._ It wouldn't take a genius to look at these pictures and figure out that Pete was head over heels for the short vocalist — it's written all over him. Someone might as well have taken a Sharpie and written “ _property of Patrick Stump_ ” in the middle of his forehead.

“Pete?” Patrick asks groggily, and Pete jumps, startled. “Whoa there, Sparky, don’t piss yourself. But what are you doing out of bed? I’m cold.”

“Joe sent me a link to some gossip blog that wrote about us,” Pete admits, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“ _Us?”_ Patrick asks, confused. “What could they possibly find interesting enough to write about?”

“I’m guessing you haven’t seen this yet, then,” Pete says, frowning. He spins the laptop around, clicking on and zooming in on one of the pictures of them — he is _not_ letting Patrick see that title. The singer sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and blinks tiredly at the image. “They published it yesterday afternoon. Take a look for yourself.”

“Hand me my glasses,” Patrick mumbles, yawning slightly. As soon as he’s got them on, he leans in to focus on the picture, then shakes his head, a smile on his face, and lays back down. Whatever _that_ means.

Pete closes the laptop and puts it on the nightstand, gingerly perching himself on the side of the bed. “Does it bother you? Because we could probably go through the label and get it taken down, if it does.”

“Honestly?” Patrick replies, his face as open and revealing as Pete’s ever seen him. “No. It doesn’t bother me at all. Does it bother you?”

Pete finds himself shaking his head, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. “No, it doesn’t bother me, either.”

Patrick stares up at him, squinting his eyes suspiciously, before removing the pillow from behind his head and smacking Pete square across the face in one swift motion. Pete’s mouth drops open in shock, blinking in surprise. “Hey, what — !”

He’s cut off as Patrick suddenly sits up, wraps his arms and legs securely around Pete, and pulls him back down onto the bed, laughing all the while. He gingerly presses a kiss to the corner of Pete’s mouth, and the warmth in Pete’s chest begins to blossom. “Shut up. Stop worrying about stuff, seriously. Who gives a fuck if the tabloids saw us? Nobody reads that shit anyway — and you kind of already have a reputation for bouncing between pretty musicians all the time.”

“So you finally acknowledge that you’re pretty?” Patrick shakes his head and opens his mouth to reply, but Pete just covers it with his hands, grinning. “No, now _you_ shut up. Also, that’s totally not true. You’re the only person I’ve been with for months, so shut it.”

“I know,” Patrick finally says, gaze going soft. It makes Pete's heart stir, the ache in his chest coming back for another visit. “Come on, get back under the covers. We’re going back to sleep. And you owe me a blowjob later for waking me up for such a stupid reason.”

Pete ends up being a little too preoccupied to ever call Joe back.

 

—

 

Pete has never really been a fan of Valentine’s Day.

He considers it a _Hallmark_ holiday, one just there so that businesses can sell so many flowers and cards and boxes of chocolate that they can jack off to how much profit they’ll be rolling in afterwards. Even so, he’s gone all out for Valentine’s Day in the past — to mixed results, depending on the significant other at the time the day rolled around — and it’s never really felt _worth it_ to him. Why waste all your money on one day, one night, _whatever?_ It’s not that he doesn’t get it, because he does, he just doesn’t see the point.

The last Valentine’s Day he’d spent with somebody else was back when he was still dating Mikey, and they’d spent a good amount of the day fighting over Pete’s apparent “lack of affection” when it came to putting effort in. Of course, there had been makeup sex that night, but it hadn’t been anything particularly great. In retrospect, Pete can kind of see why their relationship fizzled; they hadn’t clicked, and it’s also possible that Mikey was right, and he was a shitty boyfriend. Either way, it’s still tainted the image of Valentine’s Day in his mind for years, and it’s not like he ever expected that to change.

This year, though...well, this year might make up for it.

He’s got Patrick on his back underneath him, candles on the nightstand by the bed, and fucking _rose petals_ of all things scattered across the bed and floor because apparently they both turn into blubbering romantic _idiots_ on this dumb fucking day as long as they’re together. Patrick’s lips are on his neck and they’re both covered in hickies that are gonna be impossible to hide and he doesn’t _care_ anymore, he’s just _happy_ and that’s all that matters.

Oh, and he’s also so, _so_ fucking close to getting off that it actually hurts. That’s also a major plus in the grand scheme of things.

“ _Pete,_ ” Patrick chokes out, face flushed red, a desperate mess. His lips are parted, his eyes closed, an absolutely _wrecked_ look on his face, and goddamn, if that isn’t so sinful Pete would fucking die for it. Pete wraps a hand around his cock and kisses his forehead, feeling oddly romantic for once. Patrick whimpers at the sudden touch, bucking up into it as much as he can. He’s let his inhibitions go completely, solely searching for release, and what is Pete to do but to give it to him? “Please. Give it to me, I’m begging you. Come on, baby.”

And that’s all it takes. Pete slams into him one last time and they’re both _gone_ at the same time like some kind of Valentine’s Day miracle — albeit, a sticky one, at that. They lay together in the flickering candlelight, breathing heavily and damp with sweat, exhausted but satisfied. Finding the energy to pull out, toss the condom into the trash, and clean them both off is another miracle in itself.

Pete curls a hand around the back of Patrick’s neck and kisses him slow, like they’ve got all the time in the world. It feels like they do, at least; with the way they’re both tangled up in the blankets, neither of them is going anywhere soon, which is more than fine with Pete. He always sleeps better with Patrick in the same bed, and needless to say, they’ll both be out cold pretty soon. Patrick slips his tongue into his mouth and he just goes with it, smiles into the kiss and lets it go on for as long as it needs to.

Pete is the one who eventually pulls back, cupping Patrick’s face with one hand. “I’m gonna put the candles out before we go to sleep, okay?”

Patrick nods and winds his arms around Pete, yawning in response. There’s a rose petal still caught in his hair, but it’s not like Pete’s going to mention that; it’s fucking _adorable._ “Yeah, sure, we can’t have a fire hazard on Valentine’s Day. That would just kill the mood.”

He leans over to the nightstand to blow out the candles, Patrick’s arms still wrapped around his waist. When they settle in, it feels like puzzle pieces connecting; Patrick’s head on Pete’s shoulder and Pete’s leg slotted between his thighs and their arms wrapped around each other. It feels not just warm and content, but also...safe. It feels endless, Pete thinks.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Pete,” Patrick mumbles into his shoulder, half-asleep, and his heart grows three sizes, just like the fucking Grinch.

In Pete’s book, Valentine’s Day now sucks marginally less than it did before.

 

—

 

While the coastline along Lake Michigan doesn’t exactly form the _best_ beach he’s ever been to — after all, nothing can really compare to the ocean — it’s the best they can do, considering it’s the middle of April, and they both have work tomorrow. It happens to be really fucking _hot_ for the middle of spring, though, and it didn’t take much convincing before Pete was dragging Patrick out the door, sunscreen smeared across his cheeks, and they were on their way to the makeshift beach.

Pete quickly discovers that he and Patrick are on two completely different ends of the spectrum when it comes to spending time at the beach. Patrick, for instance, prefers to sit under their umbrella and read, or maybe take a nap, where his fair skin is safe from burning. Pete, on the other hand, can’t get enough of swimming and playing in the waves, going right back to the happier parts of his childhood. At one point, Pete convinces Patrick to look for seashells and build a sandcastle with him — and seriously, nobody should be as good at making sandcastles as Patrick is, that’s just plain _unfair_ — before leaving him alone for the next couple of hours to relax, going back to the water instead.

The sun is sinking lower in the sky, and thankfully, the air has gotten a bit cooler than it’s been all day. Pete emerges from the water, soaked from head to toe yet satisfied, and trots back up the beach toward their umbrella, where Patrick is sitting back with...is that _ice cream?_ Oh, fuck, Pete could really go for ice cream. He’s gonna finesse this out of Patrick if it’s the death of him.

Patrick peers up at him from his sunglasses as he approaches, a hint of an amused smile on his face. He closes his book and grins up at him, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. “What do you want from me, Wentz?”

“Well, Patrick…” Pete starts, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “I see you’ve got ice cream for you...and none for me. And I have a bit of a problem with that.”

“How the _fuck_ could you have known I have ice cream from all the way out there?” Patrick asks, one hand on his hip. It’s fucking adorable. “Your vision isn’t _that_ good.”

Pete narrows his eyes and grins mischievously, settling himself right in Patrick’s lap, the latter groaning unhappily about being wet now. Pete nearly purrs with content, splaying one hand across the back of Patrick’s neck to pull him in close. “Oh, dear Patrick, I think you underestimate me. I have honed my ice cream senses to _perfection_. I can spot ice cream from miles away. It’s a gift and a curse.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just take some of the ice cream and get on with it, already. I know you’re not gonna stop until you get some.”

Pete grins, his eyes glittering playfully. “What, and pass up the perfect opportunity to do this?” He closes the gap between them then, kisses Patrick so deeply he tastes chocolate on his tongue, hot and wet and probably intense enough to scar any young children that may happen to be wandering the beach. Oops. He’s not sorry.

Except Patrick accidentally drops the cone altogether then, and they break apart to stare at the ice cream melting in the sand. He _is_ a bit sorry about that.

But when Patrick looks back up to meet his gaze, he doesn’t look mad. In fact, he just seems mildly irritated, fighting back a smile as he says “you owe me another ice cream, asshole.”

Pete grins and pulls him back in, his eyes falling shut once more. “If I get to kiss you like this every time you have ice cream, I’ll buy you as much as you want.”

When they’ve finally settled the ice cream debacle, Pete finds himself worn out from everything he’s done today — mostly the swimming and the (failed) attempts at surfing on a child’s boogie board. He probably shouldn’t have kept at it today after all of his muscles started to ache, since he’s not as young as he used to be, but...he loves the beach, he couldn’t help himself. Either way, he’s probably gonna pass out as soon as he lays down, which could be a problem.

He looks over at Patrick, who’s gone back to sitting on their towel and reading, and thinks, _or maybe not._ He lays his head down gently on Patrick’s thigh, yawning loudly, before sighing happily. Yeah, this isn’t gonna be a problem, after all.

“What are you doing?” Patrick asks, looking away from his book to make a confused face at him. From Pete’s perspective, where Patrick’s face is kind of sideways, it’s kind of funny in a cute way.

“I’m tired,” he says simply, shutting his eyes. “I’m gonna take a nap now, if that’s okay with you. Wake me up when it gets dark out if I’m not up by then.”

Patrick just stares down at Pete for a minute before tentatively reaching out and carding his fingers through his wet hair, sighing contently. “Yeah, I guess that’s fine.”

He falls asleep with his head in Patrick’s lap to the feeling of Patrick stroking his hair softly, and thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ , Patrick could be falling in love with him, too.

 

-

 

When he wakes up, the sun has begun to set, painting the sky in gorgeous shades of pink and orange. He shivers, the heat of the sun no longer there to warm his skin, and Patrick looks down at him.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs, lips forming a smile so sweet it makes Pete’s heart skip a beat. “You finally all the way awake?”

Pete nods, sitting up and curling himself into a tight ball. “Yeah, and I’m fucking _freezing_. I thought the beach was supposed to be warm?”

“That’s what you get when you fall asleep wet, dumbass,” Patrick teases, a hint of affection in his voice. “And also when you have no fucking clothes on.”

“Well, excuse me for not wearing clothes at the _beach_ ,” Pete retorts, pushing himself into a sitting position. His entire arm is coated in sand, and he grimaces, brushing it off as best as he can. “How was I supposed to know I’d fall asleep?”

“I knew,” Patrick says, grinning. “Because I know you all too well, and you’re an idiot.”

“Good for you,” Pete grumbles, faux-pouting. “Laugh all you want, but I’m not going to stop complaining about being cold until I stop feeling like I’m going to freeze to death.”

“I also know that,” Patrick replies, shrugging off his cardigan and handing it to Pete. “Which is one of the reasons I brought this — to ward off your whining.”

Pete takes it gratefully, pulling it on. It’s a bit small, but it also smells like Patrick, which more than makes up for it. “You’re a godsend, Patrick Stump, did you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

They’re silent as the sun begins to slip below the horizon, but they don’t need words to say how they’re feeling right now — the way Patrick’s pressed up against him, even though he’s still kind of wet and also covered in sand, tells him everything he needs to know.

“Hey,” Patrick finally whispers once the sky has gone completely dark, nudging Pete gently with his shoulder. “We should probably go home now. We _do_ have jobs, you know.”

Pete groans, reluctant to get up and have to go back to the real world. Patrick is right, though; he has to start planning a solo tour for his album, and Pete should probably get back to working on material for Black Cards.

He doesn’t really mind leaving the beach, though, because all that he can think about is the fact that Patrick referred to going back to Pete’s apartment together as _“home.”_

 

—

 

It’s Patrick’s birthday, and Pete’s got a surprise planned that he’s been putting together for weeks.

“Why do I have to be blindfolded?” Patrick asks, though he’s laughing more than complaining, which is always a good sign. They stumble out the door of Pete’s apartment building together and into the parking lot, a happy, blissful mess. Pete’s pulling him along by the hand, trying to make sure he doesn’t faceplant over a curb, but it’s like Patrick loses all coordination when he can’t see — which makes sense, actually, now that Pete thinks about it.

“Don’t question my ways,” Pete teases, opening the car door for him. “Get in. I’m taking you somewhere.”

“I feel like this could be weirdly kinky,” Patrick muses, feeling his way into the passenger seat, and Pete’s really glad he can’t see the flush in his cheeks from the mental image he gets of that. He shoves the idea of Patrick in a blindfold — or Patrick putting _him_ in a blindfold, _fuck_ — to the back of his mind, promising to compartmentalize it for later.

“Not kinky,” Pete retorts, slipping into the driver’s seat. “Just secret. It’s your birthday; it has to be a surprise.”

On the way there, they sit in comfortable silence, the only noise the radio playing softly in the background, but it’s nice. Pete reaches over and takes Patrick’s hand at one point, smiling to himself, and when he glances over he notices Patrick’s sheepish smile, as well. It’s such a sweet, tender moment, one that Pete gets to keep all to himself, and he feels his chest fill and hold.

When the car finally pulls to a stop, Patrick is already reaching up to take off his blindfold — only Pete’s quick reflexes keep him from ruining the surprise.

“Not yet!” Pete exclaims, making sure the blindfold is still tied tightly enough that he can’t see anything. “Soon, babe, just be patient.”

Patrick grumbles something that Pete can’t quite hear under his breath, but resigns himself to his terrible fate of having to wait five more minutes before getting to find out what his birthday surprise is going to be. He lets Pete help him out of the car, holding tight to his forearm the whole time. “All right, let’s do this thing — but you better not let me trip over myself.”

“Take my hand,” Pete says, nudging it with his own. “Just trust me, okay? I’m not gonna lead you into a tree or anything.” He grabs the picnic basket from the backseat with his other hand, and together they set off down the trail, into the woods ahead.

“I dunno,” Patrick jokes, trying to fall into step with Pete. “This could be the part where you lead me into the woods and murder me in cold blood. But, like, on my birthday? That would be a bit much.”

“Patrick, I swear to god,” Pete sighs, though he’s laughing under his breath. Yeah, there’s a reason he likes this guy. "All right, we're here. You can take the blindfold off now."

"Thank god," Patrick sighs, awkwardly reaching up to find the point at the back of his head where the blindfold is tied. "It's about time. I feel like we've been walking in circles. Also, can you help me get this thing off? Did you double knot it?"

Pete grins, reaching out to help him get the knot undone. "Trust me, I wouldn't take you out just to have you walk in circles all night. And yes, I did double knot it."

"Why would you do that?"

"Oh, stop making small talk and take it off, already. I think you'll like what you see."

As soon as the blindfold comes off, Patrick’s eyes are met with something that — somehow, miraculously — had taken Pete hours to set up. There’s a few blankets spread across the ground, and even more draped between trees to create a sort of “blanket tent” to hide in. He’d also managed to string lights around some of the tree branches and across the top of the tent, giving an almost magical aura to the whole tent. To top it off, the fireflies are just beginning to come back from their absence in the winter, small dots of light against the night sky, dancing all around them.

Patrick actually gasps, big blue eyes going wide in an expression of wonder. "Pete..." His voice trails off, mouth hanging open like he can't find the words to say.

A flash of anxiety sparks the worry in the pit of Pete's stomach, and he wrings his hands nervously, looking down at his shoes. “I mean, if you don’t like it, we can always do something else, or I could —”

“Oh my god, no. Shut up,” Patrick mumbles, grinning brightly. He wraps his arms around Pete's neck, eyes sparkling with something akin to adoration, and suddenly all the effort was more than worth it. “It's perfect. I just can't believe you did this for me. Nobody has ever done something like this for me before.”

Pete's heart soars, and he just holds Patrick closer, hugs him tighter to his body like he never wants to let go. Truth be told, he doesn't. "Well, you deserve it. I mean, it's your birthday, after all."

"Yeah, but..." Patrick's voice trails off as he turns back to look at the setup, a warm blush spreading through his cheeks.

"But nothing," Pete insists, grabbing his hand and squeezing it softly. "It's your birthday and I wanted to do something special for you. You're one of my favorite people, Patrick. Let me treat you for once."

When Patrick looks back at him, he looks smitten, and it takes all of the (very limited) willpower Pete has not to propose to him on the spot.

"Come on!" Patrick exclaims, pulling on his hand to drag him toward the blanket tent. There’s a smirk on his face, one that Pete has learned to associate with the fun things in life. "I think I already have an idea of how I want to spend tonight."

Pete laughs, the genuine happiness of it bubbling up in his chest. "Whatever you say, birthday boy. It's your night."

Patrick certainly does not disappoint.

Pete’s never really had sex _outside_ before, but...there’s a first time for everything, he reasons. Besides, they’re not like... _outside_ outside. They have a tent. Yeah. It makes sense.

Whatever way he chooses to think about it, one thing is for certain: because it’s Patrick’s _birthday_ , he vows that he has to make it even better than usual. So Pete fucks him slow, whispers sweet nothings in his ear like “ _yes, baby, you feel so good_ ” and “ _you look so beautiful, you have no idea_ ”, doesn’t stop until Patrick’s come _twice._ And as they lay together in the afterglow, Patrick makes these happy, content noises that make Pete feel like he actually _is_ glowing. Even after Patrick gets up to pull his clothes back on, Pete’s still left laying there in awe for a good minute or two.

How could he _not,_ though? Patrick looks so _fucking_ beautiful, even in this terrible lighting, and Pete's struck by how soft his gaze is when he glances back over at him. His hair is messy from Pete's hands running through it, but it's just as gorgeous as usual, glinting shades of strawberry blonde in the dim light. His cheeks are still tinged red from blushing — or maybe it's the chill, Pete isn't quite sure. Either way, he's breathtaking.

"So you like your birthday present?" Pete asks, moving over so that they're sitting shoulder to shoulder.

Patrick nods, his eyes shining with happiness. "It's amazing. I have no idea how you even thought of all of this."

Pete just shrugs, looking out into the distance. The clearing is dark, but not in a scary way — more of a peaceful way. He feels happy out here with Patrick, like nothing can touch them. "I don't know. I just started brainstorming, and it all came together."

"I'll have to remember something like this for your birthday," Patrick says, a slight smirk on his face, and Pete feels like he's burning up from the inside out.

"My birthday's not until June," Pete reminds him.

"Okay, yeah, but it's the end of April, and your birthday is at the beginning of June," Patrick retorts, playfully shoving him over. "And I still feel bad, since we didn't really do anything for your birthday last year. I want to make up for that."

Pete snorts at that, sitting back up. "I'm pretty sure we still hated each other's guts in June of last year. Honestly, don't feel bad about it." Patrick doesn't seem sure, so Pete reaches out and intertwines their fingers, squeezing his hand gently. "Really. Being around you now more than makes up for everything that happened between us when we...uh...weren't exactly nice to each other."

“Well, in that case, c’mon,” Patrick says, tugging his sweater over his head. “Grab a blanket, and go outside with me. I wanna go look at the stars with you.”

That's excessively sappy when it comes to Patrick, but it's not like Pete's ever going to fight an excuse to be a romantic idiot when it comes to him. Pete gives him a mock salute, pulling his own shirt back on before heading out of the tent. "Aye aye, captain. Lead the way."

It takes a few minutes, but they finally find a spot where the trees are far enough apart that they can see the night sky clearly. As they lay under the stars together, Pete listening to Patrick babble on and on about constellations and planets, Pete realizes that he'd be content to live in this moment for the rest of his life. He feels...really, _really_ happy — happier than he's been in a long time, and he's not even the birthday boy.

Patrick keeps droning on and on about astrology, and it’s actually kinda perfect. It’s at this moment that Pete knows he's fallen completely in love, and he doesn't even care. For once in his life, he doesn't want to run away or hide or change his name and move to a new town. Commitment has always been a touchy subject for him in the past, but he's been with Patrick for so long that it feels like second nature at this point, even if they haven't officially put a label on it. Patrick is the one constant in his life that has continually been good to him. Pete wants him to himself like this all the time, every day.

"Are you even paying attention, Pete?" Patrick teases, looking over at him.

Pete snaps back to reality, glancing over at him. His pale eyes sparkle even in the dark, and the way his hair fans out around his head takes Pete right back to the first time they’d ever woken up in the same bed together. It hits him low in the gut. “Huh? Yeah, of course. I always pay attention to you.”

“Sure you do,” Patrick retorts, scooting closer to nudge him in the side. Pete fakes being wounded, but wraps an arm around him and pulls him closer anyway. Patrick pretends to protest, playfully shoving at his shoulder, but doesn't resist it when Pete winds both arms around him and kisses his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, anything he can reach. Patrick's laughing — no,  _giggling_ — at this point, his eyes squeezed shut by the width of his smile. "Okay,  _okay,_ I get it! You don't have to prove it to me, god."

_If only you knew how much I pay attention to you_ , Pete thinks, grinning at him, trying to ignore the way his stomach flips anxiously. _If only._

 

—

 

Pete really needs to start scheduling these “emergency Starbucks meetings with Joe” on a weekly basis, or something. God knows he has enough of them to make it a recurring thing.

He texts Joe two words (“ _emergency. coffee._ ) and Joe, god bless him, responds within thirty seconds (“ _starbucks. 20 minutes. see u there_ ”) because Joe is a really, really good friend. He belongs in the best friend hall of fame, really, if there ever were such a thing. Joe is nice, and can keep secrets, and won’t make fun of him for freaking out over something that he should have realized a long time ago. Joe is trustworthy. Everything is going to be _fine_.

These are all of the things Pete is reassuring himself of as he waits from Joe in the corner booth, quietly sipping from his mocha, because Joe is truly the only other person on Earth who can really help him with this, and he doesn’t know what he’d do if Joe wasn’t there. Maybe he could talk to Brendon, but...probably not, Brendon would just laugh at him, and that’s the last thing he needs right now.

Finally, Pete spots lanky legs and a head of curly hair coming in his direction with a soy latte in his hand, and breathes a sigh of relief. He knows Joe wouldn’t flake on him, but seeing his face is reassuring nonetheless. It’s one familiar thing against the background noise of his brain, a lifeboat in the ocean of uncertainty.

“What’s up?” Joe asks, the tone of his voice even and soothing. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it into the far side of the booth, and slides into the seat across from Pete. “You okay, man?”

“I’m...okay,” Pete says, a little unsure, sending Joe a shaky smile. The latter man just frowns at that; he’s seen his fair share of Pete’s fake smiles over the years, and they’ve never gotten any more convincing with time.

“You’re clearly not,” Joe states, taking a sip of his latte. “So, do you want to start from the beginning, or do I get to play the guessing game? Because I’m down for either, I guess.”

“No, I’ll tell you,” Pete sighs, drumming his fingers on the table. “It just — it just sounds _stupid_ , okay? So just know that I _know_ I sound stupid, but it’s still bothering me anyway, and if I don’t figure out what to do I think I’ll explode.”

“Let’s not explode,” Joe suggests, flicking Pete’s knuckles gently from across the table. “And trust me, you’ve said a lot of stupid things to me over the time that I’ve known you. If it’s got you this worried, it’s probably not as stupid as you think it is. I’m here to listen.”

“Don't laugh,” Pete warns, and Joe rests a hand on his to comfort him.

“Don't worry, man,” Joe reassures him, smiling brightly to break him out of his anxiety. “I'm sure that whatever it is, we can figure it out.”

Pete takes a deep breath, trying to coax some of the tension out of his muscles. When he opens his eyes, he trains his focus on Joe and finally admits what he's thought for so long out loud. “Okay. I think I've completely fallen in love with Patrick and I don't know what to do about it.”

Joe breaks the rules and laughs, just a bit. Actually, a lot. He laughs so hard that his face goes red and he’s wheezing, and the snooty couple from two tables over is glaring at him and Pete from behind their drinks.

“Christ,” Joe breathes out, wiping his eyes. “This is the best thing I’ve ever heard. I’m sorry, dude, but you _really_ didn’t see this coming?”

“I’m serious!” Pete hisses, trying to get him to quiet down. “Dude, I really don’t know what to do. You’ve got to help me.”

“You know, you should just _tell him_ ,” Joe insists when he finally calms down, raising an eyebrow at Pete's scared expression. “What? You're both clearly past the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing. Tell me, when was the last time you did something that would count as a date?”

Pete chews on his lip, drumming his fingers on the table nervously. “Uh, last night, for his birthday.”

“And what did you do?” Joe prods.

“I _may_ have taken him on a midnight picnic in the woods...outside the city and everything,” Pete admits, wincing slightly as Joe groans and facepalms. “Shut up. I know it's cheesy, but it was his birthday. I wanted to make it perfect.”

“Oh my god, _you gigantic sap_ , I can't believe you haven't formally asked him out yet. You've never acted this romantic around someone for as long as I've known you.” Joe stops for a second, eyes widening as it finally sinks in. “Holy shit, Pete. You really are in love with him, aren't you?”

Pete nods anxiously, bouncing his leg so hard that his whole body trembles with it. He's never felt this way about someone before and it's _freaking him the fuck out_. “I am, and I have no idea what to do.”

“Give him something meaningful,” Joe suggests, his expression brightening as an idea hits him. “Something that lets him know you’re okay with him being a permanent part of your life.”

  
Pete raises an eyebrow, confused. “Like what?”

“A key to your apartment!” Joe proudly exclaims, practically bouncing with enthusiasm. His pale eyes glitter with excitement, wide and happy. “Have a key made for him and give it to him. It’s small enough that it’s not like, _scary_ , but he’ll probably know what it means.”

Pete shakes his head, frowning. “I don’t know about this.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Joe asks, raising an eyebrow at him. Pete slowly shakes his head again, his shoulders drooping, and Joe makes a triumphant “ _there you go_ ” gesture with his hands. “That’s what I thought. Trust me, Pete, this is gonna be awesome.”

“I hope so,” Pete mumbles, burying his face in his hands. “This better work, or I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“I mean…” Joe lets himself trail off, grinning mischievously. “We could always ask Andy about what to do, or Bebe, or —”

“Okay, I get it!” Pete exclaims, cutting him off. “You’re a genius and I’m an idiot. You win. So...how exactly should I go about this?”

“Well, let’s start with getting the key made…”

 

—

 

Pete takes a deep breath, staring into the living room with his hand in his pocket, feeling like he’s about to jump out of his skin. This is probably one of the scariest things he’s ever done — in between going on stage and performing for the first time and jumping off the roof of his house as a teenager — and he kind of feels like he’s going to puke.

He’s _not_ going to puke, though; he’s already made his mind up on that much. He is not going to mess this up.

“Pete, you okay?” Patrick asks, catching a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye. “You look like you just saw a ghost or something. Am I _that_ ugly?”

Pete barks out a startled laugh, shaking his head. “No, of course not, I was just...thinking.”

“Thinking,” Patrick echoes, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at him, an amused smile crossing his face. “So...are you gonna tell me what you’re thinking about, or just keep standing there in the hallway with that look on your face?”

“No, sorry,” Pete starts, crossing the room and sitting down next to him on the sofa. “I got you something.”

Patrick pauses to turn the TV off, giving Pete his full attention. “A present? You do know that we already celebrated my birthday, right?”

“Of course,” Pete says, giving him a nervous half-smile. “How could I forget the man who made me have sex outside?”

Patrick blushes a bit, ducking his head just the slightest amount, but smirks right back at him. “Oh, please, like you didn’t enjoy it.”

_Well, he’s got me there._ “Okay, point made, but still. I wanted to give you this, so...here, just take it.”

And, really, he shouldn’t be as nervous as he is, considering that he’s been feeling more and more like they’re actually falling into something resembling a functioning relationship lately. There's also the fact that Patrick practically lives in his apartment now, so this shouldn't scare him as much as it does. There's already a drawer of Patrick's things in the nightstand, and his favorite snacks have their own place in the pantry, and Pete's even started buying that one brand of fabric softener that he really likes.

He hadn't even wrapped it, kept reaching into his pocket and touching it over the course of the evening, feeling like it was going to burn straight through the fabric. He'd gone over what he was going to say a million times, but he's still so anxious he thinks he's going to throw up.  

Pete slips his palm into Patrick's, passing it on before the latter even realizes what's going on. As he pulls his hand away, he watches as Patrick sucks in a sharp breath upon seeing it, eyes going wide.

“Pete, I…” Patrick starts, but he can't seem to get any more words out, his mouth hanging open in a mix of shock and amazement.

“It’s a key. To the apartment. For you.” Pete tries his best to keep his composure as Patrick turns the key over in his palm, staring down at it with a softness in his eyes that makes his heartbeat stutter. “I mean, you practically live here anyway; I figured it was time you actually had a way to get in on your own.”

“It’s...orange?” Patrick says, a smile tugging up the corners of his lips, and Pete feels the tension in his chest ease.

“Yeah, I usually get my keys done in different colors so they’re easier to remember — and I remembered that orange is your favorite color, so.” Pete shrugs, smiling softly. “Why not?”

“I can’t believe you remembered that,” Patrick laughs, grabbing Pete’s hand with his free one and intertwining their fingers.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you all the things I remember about you,” Pete whispers, the words slipping out of his mouth before he even has time to think about them.

Patrick looks up at him then, expression going soft and affectionate in a way that he’s only ever seen a few times before, and Pete wonders if he knows. He wonders if Patrick can see right through his facade, if he truly knows how much time Pete spends thinking about him. He wonders if Patrick knows just how easy it was to fall fast and hard for him, how long Pete’s been pining and denying and tearing his hair out in frustration over him.

He reaches out, grabs Pete by the shirt collar, and drags him into a sweet kiss, soft and meaningful and charged with emotions that Pete can't even put a name to. Their kisses aren't as desperate or urgent as they used to be, but maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe...maybe it means reassurance that they don't have to wager everything on a single moment, that there's going to be more guaranteed to come. And he's _excited_ about that. If that doesn't describe how far gone Pete is on Patrick, then he's not really sure what does.

Patrick is the first to pull back, wrists crossed behind Pete's neck and lips stretched into an easy, relaxed smile. “Thank you,” he whispers, pale blue eyes sparkling with a mix of warm affection and gratitude, and Pete figures that he's done pretty damn good, for once. “You really are something else, Pete.”

The words “ _I love you_ ” are stuck in Pete’s mouth, but he won’t let them come out.

 

—

 

“Do you wanna have a scary movie marathon?” Pete asks, walking into the living room with a full bowl of popcorn. It’s a Saturday night, and in the past, he wouldn’t be caught dead at home. He’d be out at the bar or the club (or both in the same night), getting wasted and blacking out and maybe starting a fight or two.

Now, however, it’s almost nicer to stay at home. He’s got wine in the kitchen if he needs a bit of alcohol, and he can order pizza if he wants to, and most of all, he’s got Patrick draped across his sofa with no intentions of leaving. He just wants to lay on the couch with his favorite person and watch _Nightmare on Elm Street_ together. They’ve been on a horror movie kick recently, trying to go through as many as they can before one or both of them gets too tired and passes out. It’s not particularly wild or exciting, like Pete’s past romps, but...it’s almost better. He never knew he’d love being domestic so much, but he should have seen it coming by now, really.

 

Patrick sits back up when Pete nudges him, reaching for the remote. “Sure, just let me switch back to your Netflix profile, because I think that’s the one we saved a bunch of movies on.”

Well, this is news to Pete. “You made your own separate profile on the Netflix account?” Pete asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Patrick just shrugs it off, tossing another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “We’re on different episodes of _The Office_! If I just stayed on your profile and kept going without you, you’d be mad because you lost your spot, and I didn’t wanna wait for you to watch more.”

“Geez, why don’t you just move in, already?” Pete teases, but his stomach flips as soon as he realizes what he’s just said. A good portion of Patrick’s clothes are here. He’s got a stockpile of Patrick’s things in his drawers, just in case he needs them. He spends more days a week here than he does at his actual apartment. And now that he has his own key, he can come and go whenever he wants. God, Pete’s even got an extra fucking inhaler sitting in his medicine cabinet in case Patrick ever needs it because of his asthma.

Pete realizes very quickly that this is not solely his apartment anymore, not really.

“Move in?” Patrick echoes, a weird look that Pete can’t quite read crossing his face. “Right, good one.”

Pete tries to backpedal, turn it into some sort of joke. “Well, you use enough of my laundry detergent to live here, anyway.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick quips right back at him, pushing him sideways. “You enjoy my company, and you can’t deny that. You eat my fucking snacks all the time. I’m about to quit buying them just so you don’t get to have them.”

Pete just grins. “See, about that...I might have to make a trip to the store to get more of that almond milk you like.”

“Pete, you _asshole!_ ” Patrick tackles him to the couch, pinning him down with his knees and trying to grab onto his wildly thrashing arms. Pete’s laughing the whole time, unable to help the bubbly feeling in his chest. The popcorn bowl is completely forgotten, knocked onto the floor and spilled everywhere, but that’s a concern for later. Right now, all that matters is Patrick discovering that Pete is surprisingly ticklish, and Pete can’t fend him off to save his life.

When Patrick decides he’s had his retribution and they actually start the movie marathon, Patrick collapses on top of Pete, rests his head on his chest, and refuses to get up because he’s comfortable now. Pete, on the other hand, is not very comfortable at all — his arm is going numb and there’s a bony elbow in his side — but he’s not going to complain about it. He loves having Patrick this close to him, this relaxed and content. The blue light of the TV flickers across his face, lighting up his features, and Pete smiles without him noticing; he’s beautiful, as always, and Pete would lay here until his arm fucking fell off if it meant he was this relaxed all the time.

Patrick looks up at him all of a sudden, gaze going soft, and it makes Pete’s heart clench in a way that he can’t explain. “You’d really be okay with it if I moved in with you?”

“Yeah,” Pete says, his voice gentle and sweet. “I mean, you don’t have to, of course, but you practically already live here. Having my best friend around all the time would be fucking amazing.”

Patrick’s silent for a minute, the look in his eyes flickering through a million different emotions before finally coming to rest on one: content. He tries to hide his smile, but it breaks through, spreading across his face slowly. “Okay, yeah, I think I’d be cool with that.”

 

—

 

For once, Pete is throwing a party from home for his birthday instead of going out, like he’s used to. Joe had teased him for a while about how he’d actually changed his birthday plans for once — something about Patrick “turning him domestic” — but, to be honest, he thinks he likes it better this way. Maybe it’s growing up, maybe it’s something else entirely; he’s happy to be around his best friends in the place where he’s the happiest, trading stories and laughter without needing to be shitfaced to have a good time.

The whole gang is out on the balcony — Brendon is attempting to work the grill, Hayley is helping Andy prepare a salad for their vegan and vegetarian friends, Bebe and Joe are fighting over who gets to DJ; it’s halfway to being a shitshow, and Pete loves it. He loves his friends, had missed them terribly, and this is already looking like it’s going to be the perfect day — that is, if Patrick remembered all of the ice cream supplies, since he’s on dessert duty.

And as for him? He’s making the drinks — both alcoholic and non — for everyone, trying to make sure he’s got everything he needs to suit everyone’s tastes. He and Patrick had gone to the grocery store together last night and frantically bought everything they thought they’d need (which is, admittedly, probably more than they will _actually_ need), but at this point, he’s content. He’s got his iPod set up in the kitchen, playing music from the mini speaker as he finishes up the first round of drinks to take out to his guests, and he actually feels...really good about himself this year. He’s happy, everybody else is happy, and that’s all that matters.

Patrick walks in at that moment, looking slightly preoccupied, but otherwise happy. “Hey, Pete, can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Huh? Yeah, sure. Also, can you take the barbecue sauce out to Brendon?” Pete asks, sifting through the fridge. “He’ll probably need it for the burgers at some point.”

Patrick scrunches his nose up in disgust, shaking his head. “Ew, no. I hate barbecue sauce, and now I hate you for even suggesting that to me.”

Pete feigns offense, dramatically grasping at his chest with wide eyes. “You hate me because you don’t like _barbecue sauce?_ Patrick, I’m pretty sure hating me because of a stupid reason like that is like, a _felony_ when it’s my birthday.”

“I'm kidding, stupid,” Patrick says, bumping him with his hip. “I couldn't hate you if I tried.”

_Me either_ , Pete thinks, _quite the opposite, actually._ “I know. What did you need?”

“Well, I kind of wanted to give you one of your presents early,” Patrick says sheepishly, a soft smile crossing his lips. “If that’s okay with the birthday boy, that is.”

“An early present?” Pete asks, raising an eyebrow at him. “Fuck yeah, of course that’s okay. Any present is a good present.”

“I hope so,” Patrick laughs nervously, handing him a small package wrapped haphazardly in bright blue wrapping paper, held together by an impressive amount of tape. “Because I’d be kind of embarrassed if you didn’t like it.”

“I’m sure I will, it’s from you,” Pete reassures him, tearing open the wrapping paper. “You know me, and — oh my _god_.”

It’s a small leather-bound journal with _PW_ painstakingly engraved on the cover in the fanciest fucking font Pete’s ever seen. The first page has been dog-eared and it sticks out like a sore thumb, so he opens it, only to find the entirety of the first two pages of the journal, front and back, filled by a long, sweet note. The ink is a bit smudged, and Patrick’s writing begins to slant after the first couple of paragraphs, but it’s still so thoughtful that it makes Pete’s heart swell.

_Dear Pete,_

_First and foremost, I want to wish you a happy birthday. I’ve got more, smaller presents hidden away for you to open later, along with everyone else’s, but I wanted to be able to get you alone to give you this one myself. And if you’re reading this, then I guess I succeeded. Good job, me…?_

_You don’t talk about it much, but I know you love to write. I’ve read your poems, your lyrics, and I even found your old manuscripts for Gray — which I still think you should publish, by the way. You’re an amazing writer, way better than you ever give yourself credit for, and I know you have more thoughts in that head than you can ever contain; you’ve got to get them all down on paper, and I know that. (I’ve seen enough balled-up napkins with ink all over them to know that your brain never stops working in poetry.)_

_So...here’s my solution, I guess. I wanted to get you something that might work a little bit better than your phone’s notes (or at least a bit more sophisticated, I guess), but something that would be tough enough to hold together after heavy use, you know? I figured this would be right up your alley. This is to hold all of your thoughts, your hopes, your whatevers. You can fill it with whatever you want, even if that’s just your weekly grocery list._

_Maybe it’ll be a way for you to let go of some of the things that have been bothering you, like your nightmares, or your anxiety, or anything like that. Really, I just want to do whatever I can to help you, since you’ve come to mean a lot to me. I’m not as good as you are with words, and you already know that, but...I want to try when it comes to you. This is my attempt at showing you how much you mean to me, I guess. I really do care about you. I need you to know that._

_Once again, happy birthday, Pete. I hope this birthday is the best one yet, and you get everything you wanted and more. You deserve it. (Plus, if you end up not liking this part of the gift…well, I trust you’ll like what I’ve got taped to this note, if I know you at all.)_

_Yours,_

_Patrick_

And taped to the last page of the note? Tickets to fucking _Paris,_ of all places.

Pete is beginning to think he’s not the romantic one, after all.

“Happy birthday, Pete,” Patrick whispers, a slight blush creeping across his cheeks. “I’m thinking I did okay?”

“Shut up, _yes_ , of course you did, but... _how? Why?_ ” Pete asks, still sort of in awe. “You really didn’t have to do this for me.”

“Shut up, of course I did,” Patrick snorts, smiling at him. “After everything you’ve done for me? You deserve it.”

“Can I kiss you?” Pete blurts out, watching as a smile lights up Patrick’s face.

“You can kiss me whenever you want, dumbass.” Patrick grins, leaning heavily against him. “You don’t even have to ask.”

Something in Pete’s chest soars, and Patrick is laughing as Pete leans in to kiss him. He sets the journal on the kitchen counter, his hands coming up to cradle Patrick’s face, and he kisses him _hard_ , trying to convey the _I love this, I love you, thank you_ he’s feeling right now. He backs him up against the counter, both of them smiling so wide they almost have to stop, and the atmosphere is fucking _magical._

“Ooh,” Patrick laughs again, breaking the kiss. “Come on, Pete, it’s a slow song. Sweep me off my feet.”

Sure enough, “You and Me” by Lifehouse has started playing in the background — who put that on his playlist? — and Pete grins back at him, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh, you want romance, fucker? You’ll get romance. Prepare to swoon, asshole.”

He grabs Patrick’s hands, swinging them around off-beat, doing his best to keep Patrick laughing. They spin around the kitchen, knocking bowls and silverware onto the floor, but not caring enough to pick it up. It’s Pete’s goddamn birthday, for fuck’s sake; he can make as much of a mess as he wants — especially when it involves spinning Patrick around his kitchen, seeing that gorgeous smile lighting up his face. It makes his stomach do this stupid happy-flip, but he fucking loves it.

He's not sure when it turns from making fun of the music into actual slow dancing, but there they are, in the middle of the kitchen, wrapped up in each other like the world doesn't exist. Patrick's wrists are crossed behind his neck, Pete’s own arms locked tightly around him, and now Jason Wade is singing softly in the background — _“and it's you and me, and all other people / and I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you_ ,” — and he never, ever wants the song to end. He doesn't even _like_ Lifehouse that much, but it feels so, so perfect. Okay, maybe not _perfect_ , but pretty damn close.

The thing is, he can picture the perfect moment so clearly that it scares him. He can see Patrick in a tailor-fitted suit, and gigantic flower centerpieces, and the way gold wedding bands glint when they catch the light, and — _oh, fuck. Oh, FUCK._

He really couldn't stop loving Patrick if he tried.

He loves Patrick so much that he has to kiss him _again_ , has to try to get lost in him enough that he’ll never resurface because he’ll be damned if this isn’t the only feeling he ever wants to experience anymore. He threads his fingers into Patrick’s beltloops and pulls him closer, hears the way his breath hitches in his throat when Pete’s lips press against his, feels the content hum that buzzes through him when Pete runs his tongue against his bottom lip and he _melts._

Patrick pulls back after a long while, breathing hard, looking just a little bit awestruck, and Pete’s stomach does that stupid flipping thing again. His pale cheeks are colored with an impressive blush, one that reaches the tips of his ears, and his eyes are glazed over like he’s in a completely different world right now. His lips, _jesus_ , are red and spit-slick and swollen, and he sighs so intensely that a shudder runs through both of them. Pete doesn’t let go of him, not even for a second, absolutely transfixed by the way he _exists_.

They’ve been staring at each other like this for a good minute and a half, but it feels like eternity.

“I think...I’m gonna go see if Brendon needs help on the grill,” Patrick finally says, smiling sheepishly. “You know how he is. We don't want him to suddenly catch fire because he did something stupid.”

“Uh, yeah,” Pete replies, blinking anxiously. “And uh. Take the barbecue sauce out to him too, would you?”

“Right!” Patrick exclaims, grabbing it off the counter and backing somewhat nervously toward the door. “I’ll see you in a bit, then!”

On his way out the door, he nearly runs into Bebe and Joe, who are coming in to ask Pete who _he_ thinks should DJ — but as soon as Patrick hastily pushes past them, cheeks flushed red and eyes averted to the ground, Joe shoots Pete a knowing smirk. Bebe, on the other hand, looks between the two of them, eyes wide, and closes her mouth. Pete knows this side of her. He _knows_ she saw them. _Fuck. This is bad._

...and now he’s being met with an inquisitive staredown, _great._

“Pete? You got something to tell us?” Bebe asks, gesturing to the space where he and Patrick had been dancing just moments ago.

“I’m going to throw up. Or have a heart attack. Or both,” Pete announces, sliding down the length of the wall until his ass hits the floor. He bangs his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. Nobody ever told him that being in love was going to make him so  _miserable._

“Okay, so what does Patrick have to do with that?” Joe asks, confused. “Your best friend doesn’t _usually_ make you want to puke, but —”

“I love him,” Pete groans, burying his face in his hands. “I love him _so much_.”

Bebe inhales sharply, taken aback. “Why didn't you ever tell us about this?”

Pete looks up, quickly exchanging a glance with Joe, who smiles nervously. “Well, I did tell _someone_ , just not...anyone else.”

Bebe’s mouth falls open, and she turns to Joe, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You knew about this the whole time?”

Joe throws his hands up in defense, eyes wide. “Not the whole time! I only found out at Patrick's release party. None of us knew about them last summer at all.”

“Last _summer_!”

“Smooth, Joe,” Pete says, completely deadpan. “You really know what to say in times like these.”

“ _Pete_ ,” Bebe says, her voice taking a hard edge to it. “You have five minutes to explain this to me.”

“All right,” Pete sighs, patting the floor next to him. “Sit down. I’ll tell you everything”

Bebe and Joe sit down on either side of him, and he begins to explain the situation. “We started hooking up during the tour,” Pete admits with a sigh. “ _Don’t_ say it, I know, I already had to go through this with Joe.”

Bebe rolls her eyes at him, but nods for him to continue. “Okay, so then what?”

“We became friends — like, good friends — while we were hooking up, so it kinda became a friends-with-benefits thing,” Pete muses, picking at his shirt nervously. “And then, when tour ended...we didn’t end with it, you know? We just kept going and became even better friends, and then he became my best friend, and now it’s almost like he lives in my apartment, and I love him. I love him, I’m _in love_ with him, and I have no _fucking_ idea what to do about it because I’m so goddamn scared.”

“Well, shit,” Bebe murmurs, her eyes going wide. “I didn’t realize you were _in love_ with the guy.”

“I really think he could be it, guys,” Pete mumbles softly, waves of raw emotion coursing through him relentlessly. “He could be...you know. _It_. _The One._ Whatever you wanna call it.”

“Oh, Pete,” Bebe says, resting a gentle hand on his thigh. “You...you really think so?”

Pete’s crying against his best efforts at this point, burning tears streaking down his cheeks. “It's him. I've never felt this way about anyone else before.”

“You have to tell him, Pete, before your window of opportunity closes,” Joe says, scooting over to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “He loves you too, you know. I can see it in both of you, even if you can't.”

“Okay, but what if he doesn't?” Pete asks, playing on his own doubts. “At least, not in the way that I love him?”

“He does.” The new voice comes from the doorway, and Andy steps into the kitchen.

Pete’s mouth falls open in surprise. “You...you _knew_? I...I thought…”

“You thought what? That I was completely oblivious?” Andy asks, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’d have to be blind not to see you two together. You’re not very subtle, you know. Hotel walls aren’t exactly the thickest.”

Pete flushes deeply at that, embarrassment flooding his chest. “Hey, I —”

“— _look_ , Pete. That’s not the point,” Andy says firmly, cutting him off before he can start rambling. “ _The point_ is that I love you a lot, but you're being a dumbass. He's probably talking his ass off out there with Brendon, worrying about the exact same thing you are. But, if you don't tell him, what if he assumes you don't feel the same way? What if you lose your chance?”

“I can’t do that,” Pete mumbles, staring at the journal on the kitchen counter, still open to the fucking tickets. “I can’t lose him.”

“Then tell him,” Joe says softly. “Pete, I’ve been with you through this the longest, and I know how much you care about him. He obviously cares about you, too. I just want to see you happy, man. We all do.”

“Thanks, guys,” Pete mumbles, glancing at all of them with a sad smile crossing his lips. “I really appreciate all of you. I love you guys.”

“We love you too,” Bebe says, rubbing his back to soothe him. “Come on, let’s get some water into you or something, put on some good music, and get out there. It’s your birthday, and you’re gonna have a good time if it’s the death of me.”

“Yeah, okay,” Pete says, nodding and wiping his eyes. “Let’s do this thing.”

 

—

Patrick hasn’t _officially_ claimed he’s moving in, but when more and more of his things start showing up at Pete’s apartment, they both know what it means.

It’s the beginning of something both scary and beautiful, but Pete’s slowly getting used to it as time passes. It stops feeling so huge and monumental and instead begins to feel like a natural progression, like _of course_ they would end up here. Joe doesn’t even bat an eyelash when Pete tells him, like he’s been expecting this for a while, and Pete’s left wondering if he’s the only one here who feels like he’s got some catching up to do in regards to this whole situation.

Oh well, at least he still gets weekly movie nights out of this whole thing. That’s always a reassuring and a plus, even if he does feel dumb for not seeing it coming.

“I’ve got ice cream!” Pete declares, bounding into the living room with two cartons of Ben and Jerry’s and two gigantic spoons stuck into them. Patrick barely looks up, a weak smile on his face, and that’s when Pete realizes that something is wrong. “You still cool with having our movie night tonight? Because we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“No!” Patrick interjects quickly, beckoning for Pete to come sit with him. “Sorry, I’m fine, I was just thinking. Come on, let’s do this thing. I don’t want the ice cream to melt.”

Despite the doubt lingering in his brain, Pete sits down beside him and tries not to read too much into it, starting the movie without prying. Halfway through his ice cream carton, though, Patrick’s not paying any attention to the movie, his eyes glazed over with a faraway look and his lips curled into a frown. It tugs at Pete’s heartstrings; he hates to see Patrick unhappy, and he especially hates feeling so helpless about it. “What’s wrong, Trick?”

“I’m just nervous,” Patrick muses, wringing his hands together; he’s barely touched his ice cream. “Don’t worry about it, though, I’ll be fine.”

“What about?” Pete asks, taking both cartons and sitting them on the coffee table.. “I’ve never seen you get this worked up about something before.”

Patrick shakes his head, looking somewhat ashamed of himself. “That’s because I _shouldn’t_ be nervous about it. I’ve done this a million times.”

“Is it about the new shows?” Pete asks, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

News came from the label a few days ago that Travie had arranged for Patrick to do a small string of shows around Chicago to support his new album. Gabe, on the other hand, was more than willing to send him out on a full tour again, but thankfully for Patrick’s mental health (and Pete’s, by extension), Travie was able to talk him out of it — tour burnout is actually the worst kind of exhaustion.

“Yeah,” Patrick finally admits, running his hands through his hair. “It’ll be the first time I actually perform some of these songs to people, you know? And it’s been a while since I was actually up on stage. What if they don’t like them? What if they only liked me because of _Truant Wave_?”

“I’ve heard these songs, though,” Pete reminds him, smiling softly to reassure him. “I was there when you were writing them. I heard them from the first recording to the last, and I know you put your entire heart into _Soul Punk_. And yeah, it’s not exactly the same thing as _Truant Wave_ , but it’s still _you_. People would be crazy not to like it...or deaf.”

“Maybe,” Patrick mumbles. “I don’t know. It just feels like everything has flown by so fast and I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“Even if you aren’t, I’m still gonna be there for you,” Pete says, nudging him with his elbow to get him to look up. “I know you’re gonna do great, no matter what you think.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d say that. I have a show tomorrow night. It’s pretty underground, so not a lot of people will be there, but…” Patrick’s voice trails off, and Pete presses a kiss to his shoulder, urging him to go on. “I...I want you to be there. It’s the first show I’ve headlined ever since the album dropped, and I know I shouldn’t be nervous because months ago we were playing in sold-out venues, but I’m —”

“Hey,” Pete says softly, lifting his head to meet Patrick’s gaze. He looks like a deer in the headlights, scared and unsure, so Pete intertwines their fingers and squeezes his hand reassuringly. He’s not going anywhere, and he doesn’t plan on it. He’s in way over his head at this point, but he’s starting to think that he could get used to it. “Don’t freak out, okay? Of course I’ll come. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

_I love you. I love you. Oh, god, I love you._ If there’s one thing Pete knows, it's that he'd practically follow Patrick to the ends of the earth and back. He can only hope that the blonde can read that in his gaze, that the way his breath stutters and his heart pounds can convey that message to him. He _loves_ Patrick, loves him so much that his body aches with it, burns him up from the inside out. He'd do anything. _Anything._

Patrick bites his lip, a million different emotions flashing in his eyes before he finally just leans in and kisses him — and that’s more than anything he could ever say.

 

—

 

Pete tugs impatiently at his tie, feeling _way_ too hot in his suit jacket being packed in with all of these people. He should’ve just come in a t-shirt and jeans; however, Patrick was nervous, so, of course, Pete had dressed up with him to make him less nervous, because Pete is an absolute sucker for everything that he does, and would’ve probably come to the show in a winter coat if Patrick had asked him to.

He’s standing a few rows back from the stage in an attempt not to distract Patrick, and he’s barely paying attention as the first act plays through their set. He feels bad about it — he’s been an opening act before, multiple times, he should really listen to them — but he’s a bit preoccupied with worry. What if something goes wrong, or the crowd doesn’t appreciate the new songs? He has complete faith in Patrick, but he deserves only the best, and if the crowd doesn’t recognize good music when they hear it...well, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

And then, before Pete knows it, there he is, forehead coated in a slight sheen of sweat, rose-colored lips parted in a laugh, golden hair swept messily to the side, and _fuck,_ if it isn't the most beautiful thing Pete's ever seen. He’d forgotten just how amazing Patrick’s voice sounded live, when he’s singing like he _means it_ instead of just humming tunes while doing chores around the apartment. He'd do just about anything to drag Patrick into one of the back rooms, to get so lost in the way he moves and the sounds he makes that Pete forgets his own fucking name.

By the last song of the set, every muscle in his body aches to fling himself at the stage. He hadn’t been prepared to hear _everything_ from the album out loud — god, “Greed” and “Allie” nearly killed him — and, apparently, near had the crowd, but they’re _loving it_. Girls in the front row are screaming at the top of their lungs, their arms outstretched toward him, and Patrick just grins down at them before launching into “Explode”. By the time he says goodnight and bounds off stage, Pete’s left wondering how he ever kept himself together while they were out on tour.

It takes Pete a while to find him after the show winds down and people start to leave, but even though it’s truly not that long, in his mind, it feels like forever. Finally, Pete catches a flash of fair hair in the crowd, a pop of color as the red tie of his suit sticks out like a sore thumb. When he gets close enough to reach, Pete grabs his arm and drags him into the bathroom. The door slams shut behind them, and then it’s only them, alone together and pressed up against the cold wall as Patrick’s eyes go wide. “Pete, what the fuck are you doing?”

“All night,” Pete pants, feeling the flaming sensation in his cheeks intensify. “All fucking _night_ I have had to watch you out there looking absolutely sinful in that damn suit making those stupidly attractive noises, and I am about three seconds away from tearing it off of you here and now.”

“Aw, Petey,” Patrick teases, laughing at how desperate Pete looks right now. “You never used to have this much of a problem when we used to do this on tour. Someone a bit out of practice?”

“Shut up,” Pete growls, pushing him back against the wall, something completely foreign taking over him — that’s _his_ Patrick, he wants his Patrick _right now._ “You _know_ you’re just as eager as I am, you asshole.” He presses his palm down into Patrick’s crotch, lips quirking up into a smile when the blonde’s breath hitches. “Or am I wrong?”

“You know, even though you call me _pretty boy_ , you're absolutely gorgeous when you're all hot and bothered,” Patrick says, tracing the pad of his thumb down his jawline and pressing it against his lips, smirking at the way it makes his breath stutter. “You really should see yourself flustered.”

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Pete manages to say, letting it all go in one breath, but judging by the way Patrick's eyes widen, he thinks he might have accidentally said ‘fuck _me_ ’ instead. Which, hey, he is definitely not opposed to. As far as he's concerned, he'd be perfectly content to get fucked straight through the mattress tonight.

“Very tempting,” Patrick says, regaining his composure as best as he can. “But we have to get back to the apartment first. And then, baby, I promise I won't disappoint.”

Pete whimpers at that, since it's still no consolation for this sudden desperation, but Patrick hushes him with a deep kiss and a filthy hip swivel that will have to be good enough for now. Still hot and bothered to the extreme, Pete manages to keep it together for the rest of the night, keeping in mind that as soon as they get home, he’ll finally get exactly what he wants. He can wait that long; he’s done it before.

He keeps an iron grip on the steering wheel on the drive home, reminding himself that keeping his hands to himself is a good thing because, even as much as he wants to touch Patrick right now, crashing the car would get them absolutely nowhere. Patrick, too, has to keep himself restrained; he’s to the point of actually sitting on his hands to keep himself from doing anything totally stupid but debatably worth it. They even manage to make it through the lobby of the apartment building and through the entire elevator ride without touching each other, but as soon as the front door of Pete’s apartment closes behind them, all bets are off.

Pete’s clothes are halfway off before they even reach the bedroom, tie and shoes and jacket strewn across the hallway (and he’ll have to remember to pick that up later — great). They don’t even get into the bedroom for a solid couple of minutes, just grinding against each other with Pete pressed up against the door, Patrick’s mouth on his neck, dark bruises blossoming on the soft skin there. Pete lets out a sharp gasp every time he feels teeth graze the fragile skin, his hand fumbling behind him to find the doorknob before he actually just cums in his pants on the spot like a teenager. Finally, they’re able to break away long enough for Pete to get the door open, and then anything is fair game.

Patrick gingerly puts his hands on Pete’s chest, gently pushes him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed. He falls backward onto it, pulling Patrick down with him, laughing as they go. Patrick’s lips meet his neck once more, warm and soft, and Pete groans into it with enthusiasm. The rest of their clothes disappear within seconds, and then it’s just the glorious feeling of skin-on-skin contact, flushed red and hot to the touch. Pete pulls him back up to his lips, and he’s drunk on the feeling within seconds, already lost in how good this feels, how good it always feels.

He catches Patrick’s lip between his teeth and _feels_ it when he moans, rumbling deep in his throat. Patrick’s hands are all over him, like he can’t decide what to do first — they’re in his hair, on his chest, clutching his hips — but he completely understands the feeling. When he’s that worked up, he just wants to be able to do _everything_ at once, and he’ll never have enough hands to satisfy that urge. He finally seems to settle for keeping on hand on his hip and the other on the back of Pete’s neck, keeping him steady as they kiss. Pete finally just gives up on subtlety and rolls his hips up to send send the message that they have to speed up this whole process. He’s tired of waiting.

It feels, strangely enough, a lot like the first time they ever hooked up. It’s all built-up tension and passion and doing something life-changing without thinking.

Patrick breaks away from him just long enough to lock gazes, breathing hard, a damp sheen of sweat making his bangs stick to his forehead. His hand drops down gradually, grazing Pete’s ass for a split second, and when Pete feels fingers tentatively press into him, the gasp that escapes from his throat is sharp and sudden. Patrick stops, eyes wide with concern. “You okay with this?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Pete sighs, squeezing his eyes closed. He’s been so hard it hurts for so fucking long, this is exactly what he needs. “Or I will be, if you’d just _move_.”

“Okay,” Patrick whispers, sloppily kissing the side of his head and slowly going back to working him open. Pete reaches down and wraps a hand around his dick to show his gratitude, and Patrick nearly jumps in surprise. He moves his hand in long, gradual strokes, and Patrick groans loudly, working his fingers in Pete with a sudden urgency that wasn’t there before. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing?”

Patrick slips another finger into him and Pete actually fucking whimpers, his cheeks burning and his chest heaving. “Yes, fuck...Patrick _please_ , oh god.”

“Patience, remember?” Patrick teases, grinning down at him. His eyes are sparkling, like he knows he’s got Pete exactly where he wants him. “You waited all night for this, and now you’re getting all whiny on me?”

“Come on,” Pete pants out, digging his fingernails deep into Patrick’s back. “Fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me_ already. You promised me you wouldn’t disappoint.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Patrick says, working his fingers inside Pete just a little longer before finally pulling away. “You don’t want to be able to walk tomorrow? Fine by me. You’ll feel it, all right.”

Pete groans, waiting impatiently as Patrick fumbles around in the nightstand for a condom. “Promises.”

“I always keep mine, don’t I?” Patrick pushes in slow, grabbing onto his hips and groaning with his head thrown back, and Pete thinks that he’d be okay with dying right now because he’s never gonna see anything more beautiful than that. He feels so _full_ and yeah, okay, Patrick’s right; he’ll be feeling this tomorrow, but that’s exactly what he wants. He wants to take the marks Patrick leaves on him and ink them in, make them permanent, so he can look at them and remember them forever.

Patrick keeps his rhythm slow and steady knowing that it’ll drive Pete crazy, a small smile gracing his lips as he watches his squirm. Pete, on the other hand, is on the verge of absolutely losing it because he needs _more_ , he needs it harder, faster, rougher, _whatever._ He doesn’t fucking care what Patrick does as long as he does it soon, because jesus _fuck_ he’s actually going to combust if they keep going at this pace.

“Fuck me like you mean it,” Pete begs, tears welling up his eyes because _oh god, oh GOD._ He’s babbling now but he doesn’t _care_ ; he’s giving in and he’s got no shame about it _._ “Fuck me until I forget my name or whatever, just, damn it, Patrick, _harder_.”

Apparently, this is the magic phrase, because Patrick stops holding back and slams into him, and Pete moans louder than ever because, _yes,_ this is exactly what he wants. Patrick knows what he’s doing when he wraps one hand around the back of Pete’s thigh and the other around his cock, smirking down at him like he _knows_ he’s the hottest fucking thing that’s ever happened. He makes a content sound at the back of his throat, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip as he moves his hand in slow strokes around the shaft, and digs his nails into the softness of Pete’s inner thigh. Pete sucks in a deep breath at the complete overstimulation, lost between the rhythm of Patrick’s hips and his hands and oh god is _this_ what heaven feels like?

Patrick takes the moment he’s not paying attention to lean in close, press his forehead against Pete’s, and just exhale across his lips, and Pete is fucking _gone_ , too overstimulated to even put up a fight _._ His back arches and his toes curl and it’s possible that he may or may not be entering a new dimension because fuck, _that_ is one of the best orgasms he’s ever had in his life. A strangled moan tears from his throat, lost in translation, and then it’s Patrick who’s left blushing in the aftermath.

Patrick comes without warning, face pressed into the side of Pete’s neck as he jerks in surprise before going limp. After a few moments spent catching his breath, he pulls out slowly and quietly, curling up half on top of Pete. There’s hot cum on both of them now, sticky between their bodies, but neither of them is getting up any time soon. It’s gross as fuck, especially with how sweaty they both are now, but Pete doesn’t give a shit anymore. Patrick brushes their noses together, and Pete can’t help but smile when they kiss. He’s _happy._

After they’re both cleaned up and have put on pajamas in a half-attempt at clothes, Pete’s coming down from the high and wondering what to do next. That’s the best sex they’ve had in a _long_ time, but it feels like something’s...different about it. The whole night feels monumental, like it’s been a long time coming, and he just can’t put his finger on why that is.

Patrick walks back into the room, tugging one of Pete’s t-shirts over his head, and Pete suddenly remembers what he’s supposed to be doing, something he should have done a long time ago. He looks at his bed —  _their_ bed? Patrick sleeps in it more nights than he doesn’t — at the sheets they’ll have to change, thinks about how they’ll do the laundry together tomorrow morning before having breakfast at noon, and goes pale. It feels like all the walls are closing in around him, because everything could be teetering on the edge here, and he doesn’t want to know if he’s going to fall even if he tries his damnedest to fly.

“Pete, you okay?” Patrick asks, brushing his hand along his cheek. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost or something.”

Pete clenches his hands into fists and steps away from him, pushing down the anxiety growing in the pit of his stomach. He hears Andy’s words echo in his head: _what if you lose your chance?_ Sure, there’s the chance that Patrick won’t feel the same way, but if he never says it out loud, he’ll never know. And that’s something he doesn’t think he can take anymore.

It’s time to tell him.

Pete swallows the last of his pride. “I wanna be with you, Patrick. Only you. I haven't even _seen_ anyone else ever since we first got together. My mind is all over the place, you know that, but somehow you're the one constant thing in my thoughts. I...I never stop thinking about you.”

“Fuck, Pete,” Patrick breathes, the blush from his cheeks creeping down his neck, all the way to his shoulders. “That’s...holy shit.”

“And if you don't feel the same as me, that's fine,” Pete quickly says, his stomach starting to turn nervously. “We can just go on with whatever this is, and I'd be okay because I still have you in my life. But I really can't lie to myself — or you — about how I feel anymore.” He looks up, catching Patrick’s startled gaze, and smiles weakly. “I'm yours if you want me.”

Silent seconds go by, but in Pete's brain, they feel like hours crawling past — the elephant in the room cleared, but the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Then, slowly, a smile curls up the ends of Patrick’s lips, so bright and so wide it could outshine the sun.

“Shut up, Pete,” Patrick laughs, practically jumping on him and wrapping his arms around his neck. “Just shut up. You didn't even give me a chance to say anything. You know I'm not as good with words as you are, but how about this — _of course_ I want to be with you. I want that so much, you have no idea. I'm yours too, you dipshit. Have been for a while, but thanks for finally noticing.”

“You're perfect,” Pete breathes, feeling the giddiness overtake his senses. “You are so wonderful and amazing and _perfect_.”

“You're just a huge romantic,” Patrick mumbles, but the deepening blush in his cheeks only serves to prove Pete's point even more.

“Perfect,” he repeats, softly pressing his lips to Patrick’s forehead. “And — I can't believe it — mine?”

“All yours,” Patrick agrees, grinning up at him. “You don't even have to ask.”

And when Patrick kisses him until they're both breathless, it feels like coming home.

 

—

 

When Pete wakes the next morning, Patrick is still asleep, tucked quietly up against his chest as his peaceful breathing fills the comfortable silence. Just as he’d guessed, he feels the throbbing ache that he had been expecting, the burn of his muscles a subtle reminder of last night’s activities, and he smiles to himself. That’s not something he’s going to be forgetting any time soon. If he gets that treatment every time he teases Patrick at a show...well, maybe Travie should schedule his shows more often.

Patrick doesn’t look like he’ll be getting out of bed any time soon; his hair an absolute mess, shirt rucked halfway up his torso, legs tangled in the sheets. Pete lets out a low chuckle under his breath, taking in the sight. That’s what he gets to wake up to every morning from now on — and he couldn’t be more excited about that. He gets Patrick in his bed, in his _arms_ , and that’s more than he could ever ask for.

Patrick takes that moment to finally wake up, yawning loudly and stretching his arms far above his head. His eyes are still glazed with sleep when they finally open, but a smile curls up the ends of his lips when he sees Pete laying next to him. “G’mornin’.”

“Good morning,” he whispers, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Patrick's cheek. “Sleep well?”

“With you? Yeah, always.” Patrick grins, bumping their noses together. Pete reaches out to run a hand through his hair, carding his fingers through it soothingly. Patrick sighs softly, leaning into the touch, and closes his eyes. “What about you? No nightmares?”

Pete shakes his head, slipping his other hand under Patrick's t-shirt and tracing patterns into his back. “You know I don't have them when you're here.”

“Good,” Patrick murmurs, his grin widening even more, if that’s at all possible. “I guess I’ll just have to sleep in your bed every night from now on then, hmm?”

Pete wraps his arms tighter around him and pulls him in closer, kisses him on the corner of the mouth. “I guess you will.”

This? This is everything Pete’s ever wanted, and it’s all finally his. Hell, if Patrick wanted to get married _right now,_ he’d drop everything immediately. That fantasy — the one he had while they were slow dancing in the kitchen — resurfaces, making his head dizzy and stupidly full of hope. Maybe it's not so much of a dream anymore. It’s still a long shot, but at least now he actually has a shot. For whatever reason, he has the feeling that everything is going to turn out okay, for once.

Pete doesn’t even realize he’s been zoning out for minutes until Patrick nudges him, breaking him out of his daydreaming. Patrick furrows his eyebrows in confusion, watching Pete come back to reality. “What have you been thinking about?”

He skims the pad of his thumb along Patrick's bottom lip, watching as it quirks up into a smile. It makes something in his chest fill and hold, looking into those cerulean eyes. How had he ever hated that smile? How had he ever hated _Patrick_ in general?

“Just thinking about how beautiful my boyfriend is,” Pete finally says, letting the words fall out of his mouth on the tail of a content sigh.

Patrick pushes himself up on one arm, raising an eyebrow as he peers curiously down at Pete. “Your _boyfriend_?”

Pete’s heart stutters, and he sits up quickly, trying to backtrack. “I, uh, I just thought, because of last night — I mean, if you don’t want to be — I can, uh —”

Patrick shakes his head, beaming brightly at him. “Pete, you poor, oblivious fucker, I would love to be your boyfriend. I just never thought I’d hear you say that. It's about fucking time we went official.”

Pete laughs out of nervous relief, feeling the tension in his shoulders relax. Patrick’s got a point. He's not sure when exactly they crossed the line from just fucking around to real, genuine feelings, but judging by his own experience, it was quite a while ago. “We've practically been dating for...how long now?”

Patrick simply shrugs, leaning over to rest his head on Pete's shoulder. “I don't know, man. I still have no idea why I kept pretending that I never liked you from the day we met.”

“Honestly, same here,” Pete laughs, dipping down to kiss his forehead. “I was just thinking about that, actually. I was a stubborn asshole, wasn't I?”

“And _mean_ ,” Patrick adds, softly faux-punching Pete in the thigh. “You could've broken my nose, you dick. I guess I can't say I was any better, though.”

Pete chuckles softly, slipping one arm around his waist and pulling him closer. “I didn't want to like you when we met. You can probably chalk that up to you stealing a good chunk of my stage time. Or that literally everyone I met liked you better than me. Or the fact that how much I _didn't_ want to like you but actually _did_ like you frustrated me to no end. I mean, seriously dude, you told me my band sucked and I was _still_ thinking about how fucking nice your lips are.”

“I never actually thought you guys sucked,” Patrick supplies, smiling sheepishly. “You were just an asshole to me, so I decided to be an asshole back.”

“Yeah, well, that was stupid of both of us,” Pete retorts, nudging Patrick’s head up to catch his gaze. “Because this could've been us a _lot_ faster if we both weren't so stubborn.”

“Maybe so,” Patrick murmurs, a sweet smile on his lips. “But I’m glad it worked out the way it did.”

When he leans in, it feels like everything is finally, _finally_ falling right into place, like this is what was supposed to happen all along. Pete kisses him deeply, tightening his arms around his waist and pulling him in as close as he can. As cliche as it sounds, he never wants to let go. He wants to wake up to Patrick pressed up against his chest and soft hair tickling his face and cold feet brushing against his calves forever.

A sweet, almost burning ache threatens to burst straight through his ribcage as Patrick shifts so that he's sitting in his lap, forehead gently leaning against Pete’s like he's purposefully trying to make this softer than usual. He moves one hand up to gingerly cradle Patrick’s face, feeling the warmth in his cheeks hot against his fingertips. It’s so surreal to him — a year ago, he hated this guy’s guts enough to sock him in the nose, and now he’s Pete’s boyfriend. The happiness bubbling in his stomach makes him feel like he’s going to explode, but in the best possible way. Deep down, he knows that this is how it should have been right from the start, as soon as he met the man with the golden hair and the golden voice to match. It’s perfect. _He’s_ perfect.

_Boyfriend...Patrick is my boyfriend. We’re together. We’re finally together._

“I love you,” Pete breathes against his lips, unaware that he was even going to say it until it's out of his mouth.

But it's true, he does, and what's even weirder is that saying it out loud isn't freaking him out.

Patrick, on the other hand, is stunned into silence. He pulls back from the kiss, breath catching in his throat, and Pete's heart nearly stops as he realizes what he's potentially just done. _Oh fuck. Shit, shit, shit. I think I freaked him out._ “...say that again.”

“I’m kind of in love with you,” Pete mumbles, and he watches as all the air leaves Patrick’s lungs at once. “I have been for a while. You have no idea.”

Patrick goes eerily silent, mouth dropping open in shock, and Pete suddenly gets the terrible feeling he’s just lost everything for good. Patrick’s face goes blank, his gaze holding some heavy emotion that Pete can’t decipher, and he fights the urge to start crying right then and there. Patrick’s taken up such a big part of his heart that he can’t just replace. If he’s just lost everything, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Finally, Patrick opens his mouth to speak. “It’s a good thing I’m in love with you too, then.”

And then Patrick’s laughing all of the sudden, happy tears rolling down his cheeks, and Pete lets himself breathe again. Patrick wraps his arms around him, trembling with emotion, and Pete pulls him in close like he never intends to let go, and they both sit there, holding each other together until the intensity of it subsides. It feels a little bit like fate and a whole lot like a miracle, and Pete’s not going to take a single second of it for granted. He’s still not entirely sure that he’s not dreaming this whole thing up, but if this is a dream, then he never wants to wake up again.

“So you really love me?” Pete asks when he’s able to pull away, still a bit in disbelief over the whole thing. “You’re not fucking with me?”

“Would I have spent the last year _exclusively_ seeing you if I was fucking with you?” Patrick asks him, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. “Seriously Pete, I fucking love you, but you’re so oblivious it hurts sometimes. _Yes_ , I really love you. I’ve been in love with you for so long, I seriously don’t know how you’ve never noticed.”

Pete just grins at that, cheeks hurting from the width of his smile, but he doesn’t mind it at all. “You _fucking love me_. Sorry, but things like that are too good to be true.”

Patrick shakes his head, his cheeks going even redder, if that’s possible. “I could say the same thing about you, actually. I wasn’t sure we’d ever end up here...but I’m glad we did.”

“I thought you once said I was bad news?” Pete teases, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth.

“You are,” Patrick confirms, grinning right back at him. “But that’s okay, because I love you anyway.”

 

_end._


End file.
